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# LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.' 



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* ONITED STATES OP AMERICA. % 




GERALD GRIFFIN. 



HALF HOURS 



WITH 



Irish Authors 



SELECTIONS 



FROT.I 



GRIFFIN, LOVER, CARLETON, AND LEVER. 






New York: 
J. A. McGEE, 7 BARCLAY STREET. 

1873- 



.ri3 



Entered according to Act of Congress, m tbs year 1873, by 

J. A. McGEE. 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress^ at Washington, D. C 



PREFACE. 



I 



N the following extracts from the works of the 
ablest and best known Irish novelists of the 
present century, we have endeavored, while 
giving variety to the selections, to afford the 
reader an insight into the many-sided character 
of the people in the several sections of Ireland. 
Each of the writers put under contribution thor- 
oughly understood the peculiarities, idiosyn- 
crasies, modes of thought, and forms of expression 
of his countrymen, but mainly so far as he had 
studied them in his own particular district or 
province. Hence the Munster peasant of Griffin, 
and the northern cottier of Carleton, are as differ- 
ent from each other, and from the Leinster wag 
sketched by Lover, and the rollicking Connaught 
soldier of Charles Lever, as if they did not 
belong to the same age and nation ; yet all are 
drawn true to nature, and, locall}^ with the great- 
est fidelity. 

The numerous works of these authors have 



4 Preface, 

long since been republished, and are still exten- 
sively read in this countr_v, and we trust that our 
present volume, while affording Half-Hours' 
amusement to the public, will further stimulate 
the popular desire for a more intimate acquaint- 
ance with their larger and highl}^ elaborate pro- 
ductions. 

New Yoric, October, \%^^. 



CONTENTS, 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 

PAGB 

The Mistake 9 

The Raven's Nest 37 

Sir Dowling O'Hartigan 61 

The Story Teller at Fault, 80 



SAMUEL LOVER. 

Barney O'Reirdon, 115 

The Priest's Story, 174 

Paddy the Piper, , . , ... . . , 186 

The White Trout 200 



WILLIAM CARLETON. 

The Donagh 215 

Larry McFarland's Wake, 262 



CHARLES LEVER. 

The Doctor's Tale, 281 

The Adjutant's Courtship, 297 

The Ghost, 213 

Serving a Writ, 325 



Gerald Griffin. 



THE MISTAKE. 



" Tell why the sepulchre, 
Wherein we saw thee quietly inurned 
Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws 
To cast thee up again? What may this mean?" 

Hamlet, act i. scene iv. 

THERE was no happier man in the wide world 
than Phehni O'Rourke, from the longest 
day he could remember until that on which he 
was married, and, alas ! that we should have to 
record it, no one so miserable ever after. His 
fate was the more pitiable, that he was unusually 
cautious in entering on a state which was to fix 
the good or evil fortune of his future life. He 
did not embrace it as a mere boy ; he was verging 
fast beyond manhood at the time, he had known 
the object' of his choice from childhood, and he 
devoted a fortnight of deep contemplation to the 
affair before Shrovetide. But after the inextri- 
cable knot was tied, the grounds upon which his 
unfortunate attachment rested proved beyo-nd all 
conception unsubstantial. The gay good-humor 
of little Anty O'Donnel, the tender look, the glad 
welcome, and, above all, the winning obsequious- 
ness of manner which first caught his heart, 



lO Half Iloins uith Irish Aui/iors. 

one by one faded like fairy gifts away \.i. the 
person of Mrs. O'Rourke, until at the end of five 
or six months he began almost to call in question 
the fact of their having ever had any existence. 
He sometimes thought to himself that he must 
have been juggled by witchcraft, or his imagina- 
tion deluded by some love potion, perhaps private- 
ly administered by Anty. When he went from 
home in the morning, instead of the fond farewell 
look which, in his young fanc}^ he imagined 
would daily follow him to his early labor, he had 
to endure the frowning glances of his helpmate, 
and her oft-repeated charges about his tarrying 
out after work-time ; for the joyous welcome home, 
he met a reception that would have augured a 
change for the worse in the wife of Rip Van 
Winkle ; and for the fond anxiety to please in 
their frequent communings, a total disregard to 
every wish of his heart, and a determined resolu- 
tion to have everything her own way. 

Phelim was, happily for himself, of a very 
elastic temperament. If he was easily depressed 
by his evil fortune, he was also easily elated when 
his better star seemed to be in the ascendant ; and 
perhaps if the settled cloudiness of Anty's coun- 
tenance had been ever so rarely visited with a 
gleam of sunshine, he might have have considered, 
his fate, though a ver}^ checkered one, as not quite 
insupportable. But the season of her ill-humor 
set in after wedlock like a polar night to the 
northern mariner — long and hopeless, and with no 



The Mistake, ii 

promise of a future day. '' I have heard tell," he 
used to mutter to himself, in his moments of bitter- 
ness, •' of a woman's leading a man the life a dog, 
but sure a dog has a fine life of it compared to 
mine. He's up with the sun, delighting himself 
with his sports in the grassy fields, and there's no 
living eye takes envy at his amusement ; he gets 
his mess in peace in tlie chimney corner, twice in 
the day, without toil or trouble, and he sleeps like 
a kitten by the fireside all night, without dramin' 
or startin' as I do, thinkin' of the day's doens ; if 
he gets an odd kick or a batin, he knows 'tisn't 
out of anv ill-will, and it doesn't dwell on his 
mind a minute after the pain is gone ; and if he 
hears a tongue equal to Anty's, 'tisn't expected 
he'll understand it. Oh ! mo leare ! the life of a 
dog is a fine life." 

Time, which, it is said, wears down the edge of 
the sharpest evil, did very little in his weary 
course for Phelim O'Rourke when the cholera 
suddenly reached his neighborhood, and commit- 
ted awful havoc in every direction. There was 
the greatest consternation throughout the district, 
and the visitation was met by every one in fear 
and trembling, except by those for whom misery 
had already stripped death of his terrors. Phelim 
could not be altogether placed among the latter 
class, nor said to be wholly devoid of apprehension, 
yet anticipating some respite to his torments, from 
the very natural hope that Anty's temper v/ould 
be moUified by the universal panic, he was much 



12 Half Hours zviih Irish Aiiihors. 

less depressed than the multitude. Even a furtive 
smile might be sometimes detected playing about 
his mouth, on the announcement of some new and 
appalling stroke of the destroyer, when he observ^- 
ed the smooth and pallid fear overspreading the 
brow of his partner, and a silence, sudden as the 
pals}^, arresting her conversation. It at length 
unfortunately attracted Anty's notice, and, as may 
be conjectured, convinced from that moment that 
he was felicitating on the prospect of her seizure 
with the disease, her rage knew no bounds. Every 
thrill or start of terror she experienced as the 
danger increased about her furnished new ground 
for suspicion ; his very looks were watched and 
examined with a metaphj^sical acuteness, and the 
faintest expression traced home to its iniquitous 
source, until all his anticipations of even tempo- 
rary repose were buried in the darkest disappoint- 
ment, the spring by which he thought to lie down 
for awhile and drink the sweet waters of content- 
ment pouring out for him only new draughts of 
bitterness. 

When we mention that five years had already 
rolled over the heads of this ill-starred pair, and 
the}^ were still living in one house, and partaking 
of the same meals in so decorous a manner as to 
keep their domestic agreements in some degree 
hidden from the public, it will be admitted that 
Phelim was a man of the most enduring patience. 
With whatever amount, however, of Christian 
resignation he suffered this sort of life, he could 



TJie Mistake. 13 

not always avoid indications of peevishness and 
vexation at his lot. He was often heard to say, 
*' I wish to heaven 1 was taken ofi' at once be the 
sickness, and 'twould be an ease to me." Sometimes, 
indeed, it must be confessed, another alternative 
floated dimly in the perspective, when his wicked 
angel whispered the question in his ear : '* Wouldn't 
it answer as well, Phelim, if it took off little Anty ?" 
His better feelings, nevertheless, always discoun- 
tenanced those evil suggestions, as well as the 
contingent result of such an occurrence, which 
his busy imagination w^as ever ready to disport in 
when permitted to go at large. 

It happened one morning, as they were sitting 
to breakfast, that they heard a cry next door, and, 
in a few minutes after, a person ran in and informed 
them that the woman who lived there and her 
three children had been carried off by the cholera 
in the night, leaving the disconsolate husband 
alone in the world. Mrs. O'Rourke's eye, after 
she had recovered from the shock which the first 
announcement of the news had occasioned, fixed 
itself instinctively on Phelim, and again she saw, 
or fancied she saw, instead of the natural expression 
of countenance at such awful accounts, a shrouded 
dehght beaming in his looks, which was very 
badly concealed in his awkward semblance of 
sympathy for the sufferers. Her ire was instantly 
kindled, and after a pause of a few minutes, dur- 
ing which she was endeavoring to subdue the 
up-bursting violence into, what she hoped might 



14 i'ittif Hours ivith Irish AutJiors. 

even for its newness prove more cutting-, a bitter 
iron\% siie observed : 

'' Pleasant news this fine mornin', Misther 
O'Rourke ; the loss of so many poor innocent 
crajthurs at a sweep is enough to delight the 
heart of an}^ one !" 

" What do 3'ou mane be that, Anty ?" returned 
PhcHm. '' 'Twould be a strange bizness if I wasn't 
sorry for poor Davy in his trouble !" 

'' Trouble enough!" retorted x'Vnty. ** I b'lieve 
you'd give a thrifle to be in his case for all ; 'twould 
be the glory of your heart, you murthering croco- 
dile, if the sickness come into us to-day, and that 
you saw me dacently laid under the sod in the 
even. I know your thoughts, you villain, for all 
your long faces ; I know how you laugh in your 
heart within when you hear of a poor woman 
dying, hopin' it may come to my turn at last ; but 
I'll disappoint you ; wid the blessin' of Heaven, I 
tell you, I'll disappoint you !" 

Phelim in vain protested against these accusa- 
tions, and much more to the same purport passed 
between them, until the dispute reached a pitch 
that he found by experience it was not safe it 
should long maintain. He accordingl}^ struck his 
colors, and was hanging his head, after his usual 
fashion, in profound silence, v/aiting for the storm 
to subside, when the suddenness of that occurrence 
caught his attention, and, looking up into his 
wife's face, he thought he observed it singularly 
pale and grave. She was evidently struggling 



The Ali stake. r5 

with some sudden terror, and on recovering her 
speech, Vv'hich she did at once, from the moment 
she saw Phelim fix his looks upon her, she ex- 
claimed : 

" You have your wish, you murtherer, if 'tis of 
any good to you, but 'tis your bad angel done it. 
If 3^ou hadn't sold yourself, the wicked longing 
couldn't thrive with you." 

*' What's the matter now?" answered Phelim. 

" I'm off," cried Anty, " that's all; run for the 
priest ; run, I tell you, and take your eyes off of 
me." 

'' Erah, what's the matter, darlin'?" asked the 
husband again, with as strong an expression of 
anxiety as he could summon up. 

'' Don't darlin' me, you villin," returned Anty. 
''I'm off and you know it — 'tis all your doens — 'tis 
out of the passion you put me into I got it — my 
death will be at vour door." 

"• Got what, avourneen ?" 

'■'■ Lave off your palaveren again, and get me the 
priest. Oh! the Lord help me. I'm off, I believe 
— the cramp — the cramp. I'm done for in earnest 
■ — rub me — rub me — v/ill any one get me the 
priest?" 

Phelim now clearly saw that she Avas getting 
the cholera, for while she was speaking her voice 
began to grow hoarse and whispering, her face 
became bluish, and shrunk to half its usual size, 
her e3^es were sinking in her head, like those 
of a wasted corpse, and a cold sweat was oozing 



1 6 Half Hours ivitJi Irish AntJiors. 

out from every pore. "■ Rub me, you vagabond, if 
there's any compassion left for your poor mur- 
thered wife. Oh ! my leg — my leg — rub me — 
won't any one rub me — there — there — higher up 
• — oh ! my foot — the other foot — won't I get the 
priest at all, Dheelen ?" 

A woman happening to come in at the m.oment, 
attracted by her cries, the astounded husband left 
his wife in her care, and darted off for the priest. 
We shall not venture to analyze his reflections by 
the way, nor offer a conjecture as to their nature. 
It is sufficient to sa}^ that by the time he reached 
Father McMahon's residence his countenance had 
attained a very decorous length, and he was not 
wanting in a due degree of impatience to hurry 
back with the worthy man. They left the door 
together, and though the priest was mounted 
very tolerably, and pushed on, as in all cases of 
urgency, at rather a rapid rate, he was far out- 
stript by the anxious Phelim, who stood again by 
poor Anty's side before it could have been thought 
possible for him to traverse such a distance. 

The neighbors were at the time holding a con- 
sultation in an antechamber, to determine what 
was the best course to be pursued with her. 

" Take her to the hospital at once," says one, 
who thouo:ht the further and the sooner she was 
removed from his own domicile the better. 

** 'Tis the best way," says a second, ** for she's a 
gone woman if there isn't something done for her 
in a hurry." 



The Mistake. ij 

" Gone or not gone," exclaimed a third, who 
proved to be a sister of Anty's, " she'll never set 
foot in the hospital. I'll not have her pisened be 
the docthors, any way." 

" Indeed, 'tis seldom they're throublesome afther 
comen out of their hands," observed a pedlar, who 
stood listening in the crowd ; ** they're the quieter 
for visiting 'em ever afther, to my knowledge." 

" Thrue for him, faix," cried another; " many's 
the fine young boy or girl I see go into 'em stout 
and ruddy, and come out in the mornen with their 
feet foremost." 

" Eyeh, don't be runnen 'em down that way," 
observed a little tailor, who had obtained some re- 
putation as a wit, " they're not so bad after all ; 
go into 'em ever so bare or naked, and they never 
fails to send you out with a new wooden jacket 
and steel buttons !" 

" Ulaloo ! the vagabonds," exclaimed the sister, 
" they destroy 'em with their physics ; sure I seen 
'em with my own two eyes in the hospital, chang- 
ing color as soon as they drank 'em off." 

'' No wondher," rejoined the pedlar, " when 
they're paid for it." 

*' Paid by whom ?" exclaimed half a dozen voices 
simultaneously. 

** By the Government," returned the pedlar ; 
** who else ? There are too many of us in the 
country entirely, and we're for ever fighten, and 
night-walken, and given the world in all of 
th rouble. They thried emigration, and transpor- 



1 8 Half Hours with Irish Authors, 

tation, and turnen us out to starve on the high- 
roads by what they call the Subletting Act, and 
they thried the treadmill, and even hanging itself, 
and 'twas to no purpose. So they med up their 
minds at last to rid the country of us be pisening 
us like varmin, and when the cholera come, they 
tuck advantage of the docthors to do it, be way of 
curen unknownst to us." 

"■ See that why !" ejaculated several. 

" 'Tis a good hundred pounds to 'em, at any 
rate, every poor soul they put out of pain," con« 
tinned the pedlar. 

A low ^'Dheelen!" (God help us!) was heard 
from the crowd. 

The priest had now arrived, and, seeing Mrs. 
O'Rourke in such a deplorable way that there 
w^as not a moment to be lost, recommended 
strongly that she should be at once removed to 
the hospital. He met, however, perhaps in conse- 
quence of the pedlar's communication, with more 
opposition than he expected, especially from 
Anty's sister, a Mrs. Judy O'Lear}^ of whom we 
have before made mention. He at length thought 
it better to refer the dispute to Phelim as the fit- 
test person to give a final decision on the subject. 

'Til take the advice of Father Mac," cried 
Phelim, in a melancholy tone, '' he's the best judge, 
and, moreover, I have a great opinion of the doc- 
thors." Phelim had been attentively listening to 
the pedlar's account of them. 

*'I tell you, Phelim," roared Judy, ''if you take 



The Mistake. 19 

her there, she'll never come out of it a living 
vv^oman !" 

*' The will of God be done !" replied Phelim. 
** How can we help it?" 

^' Be not putting- her in there, you neygur," ex- 
claimed the indignant sister. "■ Is it to get rid of 
her you want?" 

The priest, perceiving that the difference of 
opinion between the parties was likely to increase, 
interposed before it reached a climax, and demand 
ed of Judy what she meant by insinuating such 
imputations against the hospital, where respect- 
able medical gentlemen were risking their lives 
night and day, amidst the most shocking scenes, 
in the hope of rescuing even a few lives from the 
pestilence. 

'' Eyeh ! the notorious thieves of the earth,'* re- 
turned Judy; " 'tisn't for nothing they're doen it, 
and as for recoveren people, ar'n't the hospitals 
open now as good as a fortnight, and for the hun- 
dred that come out in coffins, there isn't one yet 
come out in his clothes !" 

Phelim heaved a deep sigh. 

'*' My good woman," observed the priest, " this 
is all a foolish prejudice. The disease is a dread- 
ful one, and people must die of it wherever they 
are ; but, independent of any other consideration, 
I think the safety of the neighborhood should be 
considered ; there will be danger of the sickness 
extending itself if the poor creature is left here." 

"- I'll take care of her m3^self," answered Judy, 



20 Half Hours with Irish Authors, 

" if she's left, and no one else need come near 
her." 

"No, no, Judy a lanive," exclaimed Phelim, a 
little alarmed, ** I'll not have you or the neighbor- 
hood in danger by any means. No, no, avourneen, 
I'd sooner suffer any loss" — and he wiped his eye 
with the skirt of his coat — *' I'd sooner suffer any 
loss than have the sickness spreading about like 
wildfire, as it will if poor Anty's left here." 

" Thrue for 3'ou, Phelim," responded the 
alarmed crowd, "'twill be through every house 
on the road before mornen if she's not taken to 
the hospital." 

" They'll be but few of us left to tell it, I'm 
afeerd," said Phelim. " May Heaven protect us !" 

As the sense of the meeting ran entirely with 
Phelim on the necessity of poor Anty's removal, 
it was in vain that the persevering Judy still held 
out and endeavored to convince them that she 
would so contrive to nurse-tend her sister as to 
cut off all communication with those residing 
about her. It was carried by acclamation that she 
should be taken off to the hospital, and the cho- 
lera-cot having been summoned to the spot, she 
was laid into it, in a state that, without much aid 
from the doctors, gave a fair promise of her never 
revisiting her little home again. Phelim followed 
slowly and with a dejected look in the wake of 
the cotmen, and they all soon disappeared from 
the sympathizing ey^s of the anxious and appre- 
hensive crowd. 



The Mistake. 21 

He returned to his cabin alone, and as David 
wept for his son while he was yet living, but be- 
came resigned when hope and anxiety were alike 
over, so Phelim grieved for little Anty throughout 
the day, shedding abundance of tears, but at night, 
when a messenger arrived directing him to bring 
a coffin to the hospital, the fountain of his sorrows 
became dried up. *' If I was to weep for a hun- 
dred years," he observed, ''sure 'twouldn't bring 
her back again to me, poor thing ! 'tis only flying 
in the face of heaven not to submit to my misfor- 
tune like a Christian; there's no knowing how 
soon "it may be my own turn." He accordingly 
attended at the hospital gate with a becoming 
spirit, and, having deUvered in the cofhn, received 
it in his car from the hands of the porter and cot- 
men again, freighted with the remains of Mrs. 
Anty O'Rourke, as was testified by the chalk in- 
scription on the cover. He imimediately proceeded 
to the burying-ground, accompanied by the hos- 
pital grave-digger, with whose solitary assistance 
she was consigned to her last resting-place. 

Death was a matter of too common occurrence 
in these days, to leave that deep or permanent 
gloom after it which it is sure to do where its 
visits, as in ordinary times, are but few and far 
between. Individual distress, however great, 
seemed of small amount, even in the estimation of 
the sufferer, while the pestilence was still laying 
life waste in every direction about him. When, at 
the end of some ten or fifteen days, it at length 



22 Half Hours iviih Irish AutJiors. 

quitted Phelim's neighborhood, to hunt for prey 
in some new or untouched district, his misfortune 
was but an old and ordinary one in public remem- 
brance. He had, indeed, ceased to grieve on the 
subject himself, though the image of poor Anty, 
he declared, still haunted his mind, and, however 
long he lived, could never be effaced from his 
memor}'. This assertion, however, very soon came 
to be doubted by his acquaintances. The living 
picture of Maggy Fitzgerald, a blooming girl who 
lived in his vicinity, was seen too frequently by 
his side to permit the supposition that a rival from 
among the dead could occupy any very permanent 
place in his imagination. The truth was that, 
within three weeks after his late loss, Phelim was 
once more over head and ears in love. He had for- 
gotten, or ceased to think, of all his troubles and 
disappointments, and, of such strange materials is 
the human heart made up, his affections were as 
fondly and utterly given away in this new attach- 
ment as if he had never loved or been deceived 
b}' woman. 

Fortune, however, seemed now fully disposed to 
make him amends for the long period of her deser- 
tion. His days passed on in uninterrupted dreams 
of delight, his nights in refreshing slumbers, and 
the lark welcomed the golden morning with a song 
less blitheful. The blissful period that v/as to com- 
plete his happiness was at length fixed, and, day 
after day, the rosy-footed hours kept whispering 
as they passed of the joys that were approaching; 



The Mistake. 23 

but, alas! for poor humanity! How uncertain 
are its hopes ! — how fleeting its enjoyments ! On 
the very eve of the wedding, a friend broke the 
dreadful secret to him, that it was generally ru- 
mored through the country Mrs. Anty O'Rourke 
was still alive ! Phelim sprang three feet from his 
stool at the announcement, clapping his hands and 
exclaiming " Murther !" as he came to the ground. 
On recovering his recollection, however, and calm- 
ing a little, he totally denied the possibility of such 
an occurrence, described minutely his having him- 
self received the coffin containing her remains from 
the porter, and his having buried it beneath three 
feet of earth, with the assistance of the ofrave-dig-irer • 
that the}^ even rolled a great rock over the spot 
afterwards, which no unaided human effort could 
roll off again, so that, admitting such an absurdity 
as her returning to Ufe after interment, there was 
no possible way by which she could extricate 
herself from the grave. He partly satisfied his in- 
formant by these explanations, but by no means 
removed the hankering suspicion from his own 
mind, though perfectly at a loss to account for it. 
Somebody, it was said, had actually seen and 
spoken to her, and though reports as groundless 
every day find circulation, this one came too mal- 
apropos to be treated with perfect indifference. 
He pondered and enquired, and pondered again, 
until the subject took such entire possession of Ins 
mind that he felt he could neither rest nor sleep 
until he had his doubts cleared up in one wa}^ or 



24 Half xlours zuith Irish Authors. 

another. He accordingly came to the resolution 
of visiting the hospital, and investigating the mat- 
ter most minutel}^ 

On arriving at the gate, he lifted the knocker 
with a palpitating heart, feeling that his fate de- 
pended on the decision of the next few moments. 
The porter appeared, and demanded his business. 

" Will you tell me, if you please," answered 
Phelim, *' do you remember a woman of the name 
of Anty O'Rourke, that I brought in here sick of 
cholera, a little time ago ?" 

*' I do well," returned the porter. 

*' What became of'her?" 

^' She was discharged, cured, about three weeks 
ago." 

*' Cured !" ejaculated Phelim, his jaw dropping, 
and his eyes dilating like saucers. 

*'■ Iss, to be sure. Do 3^ou think we never cure 
any one?" returned the porter, wdth an air of 
offended dignity. 

^'I don't mane that," faltered Phelim, "but 
m y — m y — w i fe . " 

"Oh! ho! she was 3^our wife, was she? Wh}^ 
then, I never see one take the recovery of his w^ife 
so much to heart before." 

" She's dead, I tell you," cried Phelim, " 'tis a 
mistake of yours — you — you yourself put her 
corpse in the coffin for me, five weeks ago, and 
gev it into my own two hands at this very doore — 
don't you remember here at this doore ? Do, 
agra, try to remember — 'tis as true as da3'light." 



The Mistake. 25 

" I don't remember any sitch thing," answered 
the porter. 

" Oh ! murther !" exclaimed Phelim, striking his 
hands against his forehead. 

*' May be," continued the porter, '' I gev you 
some one else in a mistake." 

'' Oh ! murther I" roared Phelim again, as, with 
hands still pressed to his forehead, he moved 
backwards and forwards before the gate, stamping 
the ground vehemently at every step. 

'' Faix, it sometimes happens us for all," contin- 
ued the porter, " w^hen there's a great number of 
'em goes off in the night. The names are pinned 
on 'em when they're thrun in the dead-house, but 
sometimes they slips off again, you know, and 
then we're all at a dead loss, not knowin' one from 
another, so no wonther a mistake should happen — 
some one else's wife I giv' you, I suppose !" 

Phelim, upon whom some new light seemed to 
be breaking during this explanation, nov/ started 
out of his reverie, and, catching the porter's hand 
with eagerness, exclaimed, '^ Tell me one thmg 
now, like an honest man, and may the heavens be 
your bed as you tell me truly : Do ye ever have 
two people of the same name in the hospital at the 
same time ?" 

" Eyeh ! plague on 'em for names ! to be sure 
\\Q do, almost every day — there's no pleasing the 
people at all, 'count of the bother we have with 
the way they're christened — all Paddys, or 
Daveys, or Marys, or Peggy's, till we can't tell 



26 Half Hours i<ntJc Irish Authors. 

one for another; but, death and age, man!" con- 
tinued the porter, suddenly elevating his voice. 
"■ Wh}^ do you squeeze my hand that way?" 

" I didn't mane any offence by it, avourneen," 
responded Phelim ; '^ I'd be sorry to hurt a hair o' 
3^our head, but I have one question more to put 
to you. What sort of a woman was it be the 
name of Anty O'Rourke that you turned out 
cured ?" 

/' A handy little skeleton of a creature, then, 
that no cholera could kill — one that the world 
couldn't plaze — scold — scolding always, and with 
looks that ud freeze a turnip when anybody ven- 
thured to answer her." 

Phelim's heart sank within him aofain ; he sum- 
moned courage, however, to continue the investi- 
gation. 

^' E'then, do you know at all, did she get much 
medicine from the docthors ?" 

" She couldn't be got to taste as much as a drop 
for any of 'em," replied the porter. 

*' Lord help us!" ejaculated Phelim, with a deep 
sigh. 

*' But hovv^ is it," said the porter, '' now I think 
on it, if she was your wife, that she didn't go home 
to you?" 

"Thrue for you," answered Phelim, rubbing his 
hands, and brightening up at a thought which had 
never occurred to him before. '* What is it Pm 
thinkinsr of at all ? Sure if she and I were on the 
living earth, she'd find me out in half the time. 



The Mistake. 27 

The power av the world ud hardly keep her from 
me for three whole weeks, that is, if she had her 
walk and her five senses. I'm the rail fool and 
not to recollect that at wanst. No ! no ! poor 
ooman, she's dead and buried long enough to keep 
quiet for my day, at any rate ! Sure I helped to 
make the grave and throw the earth on her my- 
self!" 

'' rU be bail, then, she has the good winter's coat 
of it," observed the porter smiling ; " you wouldn't 
like to let the frost to her, poor thing !" 

" Eyeh ! no matter," returned Phelim, '* 'tis 
equal how we lie, when it comes to that with us ; 
but I'm obleeged to you for your information en- 
tirely, a good evenen." 

" Safe home to you, Misther O'Rourke," cried 
the porter, the smile still playing about his mouth, 
" and if I hear anything of Anty's stirren about, 
I'll not fail to come with the news to you." 

Phelim quickened his pace, and pretended not 
to hear; muttered, however, when he reached a 
sufficient distance to vent his feelings with impu- 
nity, " Wisha asy enough it is with you, that haven't 
chick nor child, nor anything but your own four 
bones to throuble 3'ou ; may be when you marry 
you'll not have your jokes so ready, and faix when 
you do, all the harm I wish 3^ou is a wife equal to 
Anty." 

i On arriving at home, Phelim recovered his 
spirits, and made every preparation for the wed- 
ding. After trying on a new suit of clothes which 



28 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

^vas made for him by a Limerick tailor, fitting him- 
self with a shining Caroline hat, and reviewing his 
figure, with due particularity, in a broken piece of a 
mirror which he had neatly set in polished ash, 
he spent the evening at the bride's. To such as 
have loved, it is needless to tell that he did not re- 
turn home until the moon w^as going to her rest, 
and that he then la}^ down on his humble bed to 
pass away the time in chiding the lazy hours that 
one by one came slowly to his pillow to tell him 
of the approaching morning. 

At last came the joyous w^edding day, and with 
it, from far and near, the guests came gathering to 
the merry house of the bride. The weather was 
unpropitious, for the morning had set in with wind 
and rain in all the gloom of beginning winter; but 
the barn in which, for the sake of increased room, 
the company were assembled was defended by a 
thick coating of thatch from the power of the 
storm, and a roaring fire blazing at the upper end 
gave a fair guarantee against the influence of the 
cold. The wedding baked meats were set forth, 
the bagpipes had struck up a merry air, and the 
priest had already taken his place at the head of 
the banqueting table, when a loud knocking was 
heard at the door, and a poor woman, wrapped in 
a cloak, who sought shelter from the weather, was 
admitted to a seat by the fireside. The occur- 
rence was too common to occasion much observa- 
tion, and the feast proceeded. Great and fearful 
was the destruction on every hand, and stunning 



The Mistake. 29 

was the noise of the delighted multitude. After 
the meats and other substantial elements of the 
entertainment had disappeared, and a becoming- 
time was allowed for discussing the punch, they 
all arose at a signal from the priest, and a little 
circle was formed at the upper end of the apart- 
ment, in the centre of which he placed himself, 
with Phelim and Maggy before him. The impor- 
tant ceremony was now about to take place which 
was to make them happy for ever, and an anxious 
silence reigned throughout the room, broken only 
by the whisper of some of the elders to one an- 
other, or the suppressed titter of some sly maiden 
at the bashful bearing of the bride. Just as the 
priest took the book, a loud cough was heard from 
the stranger. No one took notice of it, except 
Phelim ; but as soon as he heard it, he started as 
if he had been electrified, and let fall Maggy's 
hand from his own ; then, looking towards the fire- 
place where the old woman was sitting, a cold 
shivering came over him, and large drops of per- 
spiration hung glistening on his forehead. 

" What's the matter with you, darlcn ? " ex- 
claimed IMaggy, terrified at the change which 
came over him. 

" Nothing, achree," replied the bridegroom, 
'* but a weakness that came upon me v/hen I heerd 
that cough from the ind of the room ; it was so 
like the sound of one that I was once used to, but 
that can never be heard in this world again." 

Scarcely had he uttered the words, when an- 



30 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 

other cough resounded in the same direction, and 
again a sudden terror seized upon Phelim, his teeth 
began to chatter, his limbs to tremble, and he kept 
looking up towards the fireplace, like one that was 
fairy-stricken. 

'' Heaven purtect us !" he ejaculated, in a faint 
whisper to himself. 

" Phelim — PheUm, honey !" cried Maggy, dread- 
fully alarmed. 

" Sure," muttered he, heedless of the voice of 
the bride, and gazing vacantly in the one direction, 
*' I berried her with my own two hands !" 

'* What ails you, PheHm?" exclaimed the priest, 
shaking him by the shoulder, to arouse him out 
of the stupor which seemed to oppress him. '* Are 
you ill ? Or what is all this strange proceeding 
about?" 

*' Fm not well, indeed, your reverence," replied 
Phelim, recovering himself, '* I don* know what's 
the matter, but Pm sure Pll be quite -well when 
this business is over. Let us go on." 

He took' Maggy's hand again, and the priest 
proceeded, but when Phelim commenced to repeat 
the customary words after him, "• I take thee, Mar- 
garet Fitzgerald, for my wedded wife," his eyes 
instinctively fixed itself on the little w^oman at the 
fireplace, when, to his utter horror, he saw^ her 
slowly rising from her stool, and, throwing back 
the cloak from her head, turned round to the com- 
pany. A general scream acknowdedged the pre- 
sence of Mrs. Anty O'Rourke! She settled her 



The Mistake. 31 

look steadily on Phelim, and walked slowly towards 
him. He staggered back two or three steps, and 
would have fallen, had he not been supported by 
those about him. Her person seemed to grow 
taller as she advanced, her countenance more 
ferocious than he had ever seen it, and she was 
struggling with suppressed passion to such a de- 
gree as for some moments to impede her utter- 
ance. When her feelings at length found vent in 
words, she shook her clenched fist at him, at once 
relieving the party from all suspense as to her 
spectral character. *' You villin !" she exclaimed, 
"• you thought you got rid of me, did you ? You 
thought you had three feet of the sod over me, and 
that you might get on wid your pranks as you 
pleased yourself, but I'll spoil your divarsion for 
3^ou. I'll trait you wid a wife, so I will, you un- 
natural dog. Your darlen, indeed ! (courtesying to 
Maggy). Your Maggy, achree I So, ma'am — 
hem. Nothen ud satisfy you but to be Mrs. 
O'Rourke — Mrs. O'Rourke, enagh ! Why you 
unmoral, unproper character, would 3^ou have the 
man marry tvvo wives ? Would you have him 
scandalize the whole countr}^ ? O j'Ou rail Turk 
(to Phelim), I have been watching every turn of 
you, these three weeks back ; I've seen your doens 
— your coorten, and dearen, and drinken. What's 
become av the pig, you hangman ? The pig that 
I reared from a bonnive wid my own hands. Yes, 
two hands — look at em — not so white as Maggy's, 
may be, but belonging to Mrs. O'Rourke for all 



32 Half Hours %vith Irish Authors. 

that, thankee. Where's my pig, again, you born 
villin ?" 

Poor Phelim, somewhat aroused by the fury of 
this attack, endeavored to collect his scattered 
senses and get out of so awkward a business as 
decently as he could, but the greater his anxiety 
to appease her indignation, the longer his explana- 
tions ; the more abject his apologies, the higher 
Anty's wrath mounted, until at length, in the 
climax of a violent fit, she fell on the floor perfect- 
ly insensible. 

The interest was now suddenly changed. The 
feelings of the party, which a moment before ran 
altogether in Phelim's favor, now set back in a 
returning tide of pity for the unfortunate Anty. 
All was anxiety and readiness to assist her, and no 
effort suggested for her recovery was left untried. 
Water was splashed in her face, feathers burnt 
under her nose, and attempts were even made at 
opening a vein by a skilful farrier who happened 
to be among the guests, but everything they 
managed to do for her relief proved for a time 
fruitless. While the crowd was still pressing 
round her, Phelim lay in a chair by the fireside, 
overcome with suspense and agitatio-n, but after a 
lapse of some twenty or thirty minutes, suspecting 
from various exclamations which reached him 
from time to time from the group around his 
wife that there were hopes of her coming to, he 
roused himself up, and, beckoning Davy Dooley, 
an old companion of his, to the door, he addressed 



The Mistake. 33 

him with a look full of meaning and in a gentle 
undertone. 

" Isn't this a purty business, Davy ?" 

" The quarest I ever seen in my born days," re- 
plied Davy ; " she's coming to, I believe." 

'' We must have a docthor, Davy," rejoined the 
husband, eyeing his friend with the same intent 
look. 

" Eyeh ! plague on 'em for docthors ; hadn't 
they her ondher their hands before ?" 

" The}^ weren't to blame, any Vv^ay, Davy, she 
gev 'em no fair play either for death or recovery. 
The porter tould me she wouldn't taste a dhrop of 
their medicines if they were to flay her alive for 
it." 

" 'Twas like her cuteness," observed Davy. 

" Well, but listen to me," continued Phelim, and, 
stooping over, he muttered something into the ear 
of his friend. 

"No better on Ireland ground," exclaimed 
Dav}^, slapping his hands in approval of the com- 
munication — '' a kind, tender-hearted man, that 
never keeps poor craythurs long in pain. Oh ! 
begannies, he's the real docthor." 

*'Away with you then, arragal," cried Phelim, 
" I hear her voice getten stronger ; offer him any 
money. Run, aroo ! Oh ! mavrone !" 

" Where's Davy going?" enquired the priest, as 
he saw him hastily leaving the door. 

'' Sending him off for the docthor I am, your 
reverence," answered Phelim, '' for I'll never let 



34 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

her set foot in the hospital again. They neglected 
her there entirely, them rogues of nurse-tenders, 
and so I'll have her attended at home now, where 
she'll be made take every whole happerth the 
docthor orders for her." 

'' You're an honest and a sensible man, Phelim," 
observed the priest, '' and I admire 3'Our behavior 
very much in all this strange business. I'm glad 
to find, too, you're not giving way to that foolish 
and wicked prejudice against the docthors, 
which has been so prevalent since the cholera 
commenced." 

** I'd be sorry to undervalue the gentlemen, 
3^our reverence," returned Phelim ; '' sure what ud 
I do at all now without 'em, and poor Ant}^ is so 
bad. I wondher is there any chance for her?" 

'' Very little, I fear, Phelim ; it appears like an 
apoplectic attack." 

*' Is it anything of a lingering dizaze, your re- 
verence ?" continued the husband, in a faltering 
tone. 

" Not at all," replied the priest, "it is generally 
a very sudden one." 

" Ove ! ove ! the poor craythur ! I believe she's 
a gone woman ?" observed Phelim again enquir- 
ingly. 

'' Indeed I fear so," answei-ed the priest, '' unless 
the doctor can do something for her." 

As he spoke, Davy came running in ; the doc- 
tor followed at a more dignified pace. He had 
met with him by good fortune a few perches 



The Uistake. 35 

from the cabin, and immediately secured his at- 
tendance. 

On examining the patient, the doctor shook his 
head despondingl}^ 

"A bad case," he half muttered to himself— *' a 
bad case ; too far gone for medicine." 

'' Thry something, your honor," exclaimed 
Phehm earnestly, *' she was as bad or worse be- 
fore, and she recovered of it." 

'' Not so bad as she is now," replied the doctor 
despondingly. " However, I must do the best I 
can." And, writing a few words on a scrap of paper, 
he directed Phelim to take it to the dispensary, 
where he would get two powders, one of which 
he was to give his wife as soon as ever he returned, 
and the second at five o'clock, if she lived so long. 

The people cast ominous looks at one another 
as he concluded, and the doctor and priest de- 
parted together. Davy, meantime, started off 
afresh for the medicine, and, as soon as he got 
back, took care to see it administered strictly as 
the doctor ordered. At ten minutes to five pre- 
cisely INIrs. Anty O'Rourke took her departure for 
another world. 

" She's dead !" whispered Davy, as he laid his 
hand on Phelim's shoulder, who was hanging 
drowsily over the dying embers on the hearth- 
stone. 

" Dead !" ejaculated Phelim, springing from his 
seat, as if half astounded at the news — ''dead all 
out, is she, Davy?" 



36 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

"■ Dead as a door-nail," returned Davy, '' and 'tis 
just on the stroke of five !" 

** Think 'o that, Davy," uttered Phelim faintly, 
and squeezed the hand of his friend. 

'' Faix, he was ver}^ exact in his business," re- 
joined his companion significantly. '' Oh ! mo 
leare ! they're the dearies for doctors I" 

" Say nothen, Dav}^ — say nothen," observed the 
widower, "■ sure he did as he was taught at the 
univarsity. He was a kind man, so he was, and 
I'll not forget it to him." 

Phelim was as good as his word ; the week 
after the decease and funeral of poor Antv, he had 
the doctor invited to another wedding feast, at 
which the affair between himself and the bloom- 
ing jNIaggy was concluded without any further in- 
terruption, and he was ever after his most intrepid 
defender, when any of the old women in his neigh- 
borhood ventured to tamper with his reputation. 
He was, indeed, often heard to declare, ^' he'd go 
to the world's end for the docthor — do anything 
for him — anything in life — but take his medi- 
cine." 




HOME OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



THE RAVEN'S NEST. 



Her sire an earl — her dame of prince's blood, 
Bright as her hue, and Geraldine she hight. 

Sonnet on the Cotmtess of Lincoln. 

THE Fabii make not a more distinguished 
figure in the history of the ancient Roman, 
or the Medici in that of the modern Tuscan, 
State, than do the family of the Geraldines in the 
troubled tale of Ireland's miseries. Whenever 
the annals of the island shall be treated by a 
competent pen, they will not fail to be classed 
by all impartial judges amongst the most re- 
markable families in history. Their errors, and 
perhaps in many instances their crimes, were 
great ; but their undaunted courage, their natu- 
ral eloquence, their vigorous genius, and their 
hereditary open-heartedness are qualities which 
will be as certain of awakening admiration as 
their misfortunes of exciting pity. The story of 
the earls of Kildare constitutes such a piece of 
history as Sallust might be proud to write, and 
the genius of Plutarch would have delighted in 
the pithy sayings, heroic actions, and touches of 
character in which the annals of the family 
abound. 



38 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 

During the reign of the Tudors, a deadly feud 
had raged for many years between one of the earls 
of Kiidare and a chieftain — a branch of the Geral- 
dines, residing in a distant part of Munster. 
The Geraldine conceived his rights, as well as 
those of his countr}^ invaded by the excessive 
rigor and even injustice with which Kiidare (who 
was Lord Deputy) administered the government ; 
and the earl was so highly incensed by what he 
called the turbulence and malice of his kinsman 
that he protested his determination not to lay 
down his arms until he had compelled him to 
make submission. '' Albeit, he should have him as 
a common borderer, cut off by the knee." In this 
resolution he received the entire sanction of the 
English government, who seldom bore hard upon 
their deputies for an excess of zeal. 

Outworn by continual defeats, and feeling deeply 
for the sufferings which his fruitless resistance 
had brought on his dependents, the gallant Ge- 
raldine testified at length his willingness to make 
terms, and offered to come in person to the me- 
tropolis in order to make a formal submission to 
the vicero}'. He was not so despicable an enemy 
that even the haughty earl was not rejoiced at his 
proposal. He was received in Dublin with the 
highest ceremonies of respect and joy. The earl 
gave splendid entertainments, to which many, not 
only of the substantial citizens of the Pale, but of 
the native Irish chieftains, were invited ; and the 
public places of the cit}^ for several days were 



The Raven s Nest. 39 

thronged with a motley company of revellers, 
minoflinof with a confidence as enthusiastic as if 
they had not been for centuries as bitter enemies 
as oppression on the one, and hate and outrage on 
the other, side could make them. 

On the second night after the arrival of the 
Geraldine in Dublin, a party of horse, bearing the 
marks of long travel in the jaded carriage both 
of the animals and their riders, appeared upon the 
borders of the Pale, which they had entered by 
one of the northern roads. They were command- 
ed by a young man of an appearance at once deli- 
cate and martial. The peasants and humble arti- 
sans doffed their bonnets as they passed him on 
the road, and the sentinels saluted and suffered 
him to go unquestioned. As they approached the 
city, the sounds of rejoicing which were distinctly 
heard in the calm air awakened the attention and 
curiosity of the group. 

'' Ride on before, Thomas," said the young 
officer, addressing the page who bore his shield 
and helmet, "■ and ask what feasting is toward in 
the city." 

The page spurred on his horse, and, after making 
enquiry at the booth of a rosy-looking vender of 
woollen stuffs, returned to say that the Geraldine 
was in the city. 

" The Geraldine ! what ! hath he taken it, then ?" 

'' Nay," cried the page, *' if it were so, I question 
whether the Pale would be so orderly. He has 
come to make subn:iission to the king." 



40 Half Hours luilh Irish Authors. 

" To make submission ! The Geraldine make 
submission !" repeated the young man. ** This 
seems a tale no less improbable than the other. 
Alas ! such wisdom is rare in a Geraldine. The 
poor isle has suffered deeply to the pride of the 
Fitzgeralds. Poor, miserable land ! Give me the 
helmet. We must not pass the Geraldine un- 
armed. Efow long is it now since this quarrel has 
begun?" 

'' Near sixteen years, my lord." 

*' Thou sayest aright. I remember to have 
heard of it on my mother's knee. I well remember 
how Kildare returned to the castle on an autumn 
evening, all black with dust and sweat, and how 
she flew to meet him, while I marked his rusty 
javelin, and puzzled my brains to comprehend its 
use. I am not so ignorant now. Ill-fated country] 
How many lives, dost thou compute, have already 
fallen in this feud ?" 

'^ It is thought, my lord, some seventy or eighty 
soldiers of the Pale, with about seventeen thou- 
sand of the Irish, in various encounters ; besides, 
castles sacked, about fifty ; towns and villages de- 
molished to the number of nineteen ; and private 
dwellings of the common sort, to the amount of 
some thousand roofs. The Pale, too, suffered loss 
of property ; a woollen-draper's booth destroyed, 
besides some twenty cabins in the suburbs, laid in 
ashes." 

'' I pray you, Thomas, who might be your ac- 
countant?" 



The Raven s iVesf. 41 

'' My cousin Simmons, my lord, the city bailiff; 
your lordship may remember him ?" 

'' Ay, I thought the computation had been made 
within the Pale. And what was the beginning of 
the strife ?" 

" The insolent Geraldine, my lord, had the au- 
dacity to turn a troop of the Lord Deputy's 
horse — " 

^' Out of a widow's house upon his holding, 
where they would have taken up their quarters for 
a fortnight in the scarce season. The insolent 
Geraldine! I long to see the disloyal knave. 
Know you if the lad}^ Margaret, his daughter, be 
with him in the city ?" 
'' My lord, the v/ooUen-draper spoke not of her." 
" I long to know them both. Report speaks 
loudly of her, no less than of the Geraldine him- 
self But here's the cit}'. Good-morrow, masters ! 
Thank you heartily, thank 3^ou all ! O'Neil is 
quiet in the north, m}^ masters ! Long live the 
King ! Huzza !" 

The last sentences were spoken as the young 
warrior passed the city gate, where he was recog- 
nized and hailed by a holiday throng of the loyal 
citizens, with shouts of welcome that made the 
houses tremble around them. " Kildare for ever! 
Long live the King ! Huzza !" was echoed from 
the city gate to the very drawbridge of the castle. 
The young nobleman, who had, amid all his gal- 
lantry and gaiety, a certain air that showed him to 
be above the reach of party spirit, received their 



42 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 

congratulations with spirit and cheerfulness, but 
withou-t losing a moment's time either to speak or 
hear. The streets as he passed presented an 
appearance singular and altogether new to his 
eye. The Irish green hanging-bonnet seemed as 
common as the cap of the Pale ; kernes who spoke 
not a syllable of English were gaping at the 
splendor of the city ; and citizens standing in 
their booths stared with no less amazement at the 
unshorn locks, wild looks, and woodland attire 
of their new allies. Passing on to St. Thomas's 
Court, wdiere the Lord Deputy at that time 
transacted the business of the goverment, Sir Ulick 
Fitzgerald, the3'0ung knight whose course we have 
been following, alighted from his horse, and sent 
one of the officers to inform the Lord Deputy of 
his arrival. He was received by Kildare, in the 
king's chamber; and gave an account of the state of 
affairs in the North, where he had for some months 
past occupied the place of Lord Deputy himself. 

'' Thou art welcome, Ulick, from the North," 
said Kildare, reaching his hand to his son, who 
kissed it with reverence and affection. '' x\nd now, 
how hast thou done thy work, my lad?" 

'* Like a true soldier of the Pale, my lord," re- 
plied Sir Ulick. " I taught the rascals what it was 
to have to do with a friend of England. Thou 
and our royal master I am sure will love me for 
it." 

'' What said O'Neil at the conference ?" 

*' O my good father! bid me not repeat his in- 



TJie Raven s Nest. 43 

solence. He said his lands and castles were in 
the keeping of his ancestors, before the very name 
of Ireland had sounded in the ear of a Plantage- 
net; that we used our power cruelly. (We, my 
lord, cruel! We! And I could aver, upon mine 
honor as a knight, we have not piked above twelve 
score of the rascal's Irishry, except on holidays, 
when we wanted exercise for the hobbelers. We 
cruel !) He complained also of trespass on the 
propert}^ of his dependents. (What ! had we 
touched their lives, my lord?) He said all men 
were naturally free ; that he derived his posses- 
sions from his progenitors, not from the royal 
gift; and many things beside, for which I would 
have set his head upon his castle's gate, but, as 
your lordship recommended clemency, I only 
hanged a cousin of his whom we caught in the 
camp after dark." 

'* Ulick," said the earl, " thou art a bantering 
villain ; and I warn thee, as the Geraldines stand 
not overwell with Tudor, how thou sufferest such 
humors to appear, and before whom. It has been 
remarked, and by those who might not pierce 
thine irony, that thou art rather a favorer of these 
turbulent insurgents. Thou art overmild with 
the rebels." 

'' It is a mending fault, my lord," said Sir Ulick ; 
" in the service of Tudor it will soon wear off." 

*' I tell thee," said the earl, *' it is thought by 
many that thine heart is less with the people of the 
Pale than might become the descendant of those 



44 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 

who have grown old in the royal confidence ano 
favor, and transmitted both as a legacy to their 
posterity. Thou hast learned the language of 
these rascal Irishry." 

" I confess my crime, my lord," replied the 
knight ; *' I know my country's tongue." 

" Thou lovest their braggart poetry, and villan- 
ous antiquities ; and art known to keep in thy 
train a scoundrel harper, who sings thee to sleep 
at night with tales of burnings and rapines, done 
by their outlaw chiefs upon the honest subjects of 
the crown." 

'' I confess ray fault, my lord. I love sweet 
music." 

'' Thou hast even been heard at tinier," con- 
tinued the earl, ** to sing a verse of their howling 
ditties in the very precincts of the castle." 

^' Nay, na}^, good father," cried the knight, *' if 
you w^ill impute my tuneful voice as treasonous, 
blame Nature and not me, for I had it of her. I 
confess m3^self guilty in that point also. There is 
a rebel melodv in my voice that I cannot well be 
rid of." 

"Ay, banter, banter, villain," said the Lord De- 
puty. '' I tell thee, in a word, to treasure up what 
I have said, nor presume so far upon thy loyal 
deeds to excuse disloyal words. Princes are jeal- 
ous of a smile. Thou must bear in mind that it 
is a conquered race thou hast to deal withal, and 
add a ferule to the rod of government." 

" I shall learn, my lord, I hope, as aptly as my 



The Raven s Nest. 45 

predecessors. Ere I am twice Lord Deput}-, I 
shall aQiend." 

'' And now," said the earl, " to th}^ chamber, and 
prepare to meet the Geraldine at evening-. In a 
few days, he makes formal submission to the King-, 
before the Lords of Council at Kilmainham Castle ; 
and to-night he must here be entertained as be- 
comes a Geraldine of his birth and breedinof. 
Farewell !" 

Spirited, lively, and yet filled with generous 
affections, the young knight was no less calculated 
to attract admiration in the hall than in the field. 
He was early at the festival, and met the Geral- 
dine in his father's presence. The latter was a 
swart, stout-built man, with a brow that spoke of 
many dangers braved, and difficulties withstood, 
if not overcome. ' Unaccustomed to the polished 
raillery of a court, the stubborn chief was some- 
what disposed at first to be offended with Sir 
Ulick, w^ho addressed him in a tone of ironical 
reproof, and upbraided him in eloquent terms 
with the unreasonableness and selfishness of his 
withholding- from the conquerors, possessions and 
immunities which he and his ancestors had now 
so long enjoyed, and which it was but fair that 
they should yield at least to those poorer adven- 
turers whose services the Tudors had no other 
means of rewarding. '* Did the Geraldine, or his 
confederates, consider what the Tudors owed 
those men, to whom they were indebted for the 
subjugation of so large a province? And would 



46 //'?//" Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 

they be so iing-enerous as to withhold from the 
sovereign the means of recompensing so palpable 
a public service, etc. ?" 

The Geraldine, who did not understand irony, 
was observed two or three times to bend his 
brov/s upon the3^outh, but had his ire removed by 
some gracious turn in the harangue, introduced 
with timely promptitude. The hall of the festival 
was now thrown open ; and Sir Ulick, standing 
at the farther end, summoned to his side his favor- 
ite attendant, Thomas Butler, from wdiom he en- 
quired the names and quality of such guests as, in 
entering, had attracted his attention. 

" I pray, thee, gentle Thomas," said Sir Ulick, 
" what man is that with a cast in his right eye, 
and a coolun as thick and bushy as a fox's tail, and 
as carroty-red withal, and a sword that seems at 
deadly feud with its owner's calves?" 

'' Who ? he, m}^ lord ? That is O'Carroll, who 
thrashed MacMorrough at the Boyne, for burn- 
ing his cousin's castle and piking his children in 
the bog." 

" And who is she who hangs upon his arm?" 

'' His daughter Nell, my lord, who ate the tip 
of Mac^NIorrough's liver, with a flagon of wine, 
for dinner, on the day after the battle." 

*' Sweet creature ! And that round, short, flashy, 
merry little man, with his chain?" 
, " That is the Mayor, my lord." 

** And the lofty lady who comes after, like a 
grenadier behind a drummer?" 



The Raven's Nest. 47 

** The lady-mayoress, my lord, Avho took her 
husband upon her shoulders, and ran off with him 
to the city, Avhen he would fain have fought 
single-handed with an enormous O'Toole, who 
set upon them as they were taking a morning walk 
to Cullenswood." 

^* Her stature stood him in good stead. And 
who are they who follow close behind ?" 

*' Burke of Clanricard, and O'Moore, w^ho 
hanged and quartered the four widows in Offally 
for speaking against the cosherings on the poor." 

" And the ladies ?" 

" Their wives and daughters, who w^ere by at 
the quartering." 

'^ A goodly company. But, hush !" 

** What is it, my lord, that you would ask ?" 

'* Hush ! hush ! Canst thou tell me, Thomas, 
what lady is that in yellow, as far beyond the rest 
in beauty of person as in the graceful simplicity 
of her attire ?" 

*' That, my lord," said the attendant, ''is your 
cousin, Margaret Fitzgerald, and the only daughter 
of the Geraldine." 

'' Fame, that exaggerates all portraitures, fell 
short in hers. My cousin Margaret ! Away, 
good Thomas, I care not to learn more." 

Approaching the circle, of which the fair Ger- 
aldine formed a chief attraction. Sir Ulick was in- 
troduced to his young relative. The evening 
passed happily away in her society ; and before 
many da3^s they were better friends than, perhaps, 



48 Half Hours li'itJi Irish Authors. 

themselves suspected, or the parents of either 
could have readily approved. Both freely com- 
municated their thoughts and wishes on the con- 
dition of their families and country. Both mourn- 
ed the divided interests that distracted the latter, 
and the wretched jealousies which seemed des- 
tined to keep the well-wishers of the island for 
ever disunited in themselves, and, therefore, 
utterly incapable of promoting her advantage. 
Such themes as these formed the subject of con- 
versation one evening, while the dance went gaily 
forward, and the hall of the banquet seemed more 
than usually thronged with brilliant dresses. 

*' Now% at least, cousin Margaret," said Sir Ulick, 
in a gentle voice, " we may promise ourselves bet- 
ter times. Our fathers seem better agreed at 
every interview ; and so nearly do their tempers 
harmonize that I am sure it needed but an earlier 
intimacy to render them as fervent friends as 
they have been strenuous — Hark ! What is that 
noise?" 

While he spoke,*the sounds of mirth were in- 
terrupted in a startling manner by loud and angr}^ 
voices at the end of the hall which was occupied 
by the Lord Deput}' and other chieftains of every 
party. Before time was given for question or re- 
ply, the wordy clamor v/as exchanged for the 
clash of weapons, and in an instant the scene of 
merriment was changed to a spectacle of horror 
and affright. The music ceased, the dance was 
broken up, and the women shrieked ; while of the 



TJie Ravtiis Nest. 49 

men, some joined the combatants, whom others 
thought to separate by flinging cloaks, scarfs, caps, 
and various articles of dress across the glancing 
weapons. A truce was thus enforced ; and Sir 
Ulick learned with indignation that the hot-blood- 
ed Geraldine had struck his father. The news 
soon spread into the streets, where a strife began 
that was not so easily to be appeased. The fol- 
lowers of the Geraldine, whose hearts were never 
with the treaty of submission, seemed glad of the 
occasion given to break it off. They fell upon the 
citizens, Avho were not slow in fijdng to their wea- 
pons, and a scene of tumult ensued which made 
the streets re-echo from the riverside to the hills. 
The Geraldines were driven from the cit}^ not 
without loss, and their chieftain found himself on 
horseback without the walls, and further from the 
ro3^al countenance than ever. He was with diffi- 
culty able to rescue hrs daughter, who, on the first 
sound of strife, had immediately placed herself by 
his side. 

The war now recommenced with redoubled fury. 
The Lord Deputy received orders from London 
to have the Geraldine taken, dead or alive, and set 
his head, according to the fashion of those times, 
upon the castle gate. In obedience to these in- 
structions, which needed not the concurrence of 
his ov/n hearty good-will, Kildare marched an 
army to the south, and, after several engagements, 
laid siege to Geraldine in one of his strongest 
castles. The ruins still occupy a solitar}^ crag, 



50 J^'-'^^f Hours ivitfi I fish Authors, 

surrounded b}^ a rushy marsh, at a little distance 
from New Auburn. The place was naturally 
strong ; and the desperation of the besieged made 
it impregnable. After several fruitless efforts, at- 
tended by severe loss to the assailants, to possess 
themselves of the castle by storm, it v/as placed in 
a state of blockade, and the Lord Deput}^ encamp- 
ing in the neighborhood, left famine to complete 
the work which his arms had failed to accomplish. 

With different feelings, Sir Ulick, who held a 
subordinate command in the army of his father, 
beheld the days run b}^ which Vv^ere to end in the 
surrender, or (as was more probable, from the 
Avell-known character of the Geraldine) in the 
destruction and death of- the besieged. Two 
months rolled on, and there appeared no symptom 
on the part of the latter that indicated a desire to 
come to terms. Such, likewise, was the fidelity 
Avith vvhich those feudal chiefs were served by 
their followers, that not a single deserter escaped 
from the castle to reveal the real state of its de- 
fenders. The}^ appeared upon the battlement as 
hearty and as well accoutred as on the first day 
of the blockade. 

Meantime there was no lack of spirit in the 
castle. The storehouse was well supplied for a 
blockade of many months, and the Geraldine de- 
pended much on a letter he had sent beneath the 
wings of a carrier-pigeon to a distant part of Des- 
mond. The days passed merrily betweeu watch- 
ing and amusement, and the frequent sounds of 



The Raveii s Nest. 51 

mirth and dancing from witliin showed that the 
besieged where thinking of something else besides 
giving up the fortress. 

One evening, INIargaret, retiring to her chamber, 
gave orders to her woman to attend her. The 
latter obeyed, and was employed in assisting her 
lady to undress, when the following conversation 
passed between them : 

'^ You have not since discovered by vvdiom the 
letter was left in the eastern bolt-hole?" 

The woman answered in the nesrative. 

"• Take this," said Margaret, handing the mjaid 
a small wooden tablet, as white as snow, except 
v\^here it was marked by her own neat characters 
— "take this, and lay it exactl}^ where the former 
was deposited. Yet stay ! Let me compare the 
notes again, to be sure that 1 have worded mine 
answer aright: * Sweet INIargaret: Be persuaded 
by one who loves thy welfare. Let thy sweet 
voice urge the Geraldine to give up the fortress 
which he must yield perforce ere long, and with 
sorer loss perchance than that of life and property. 
Thy friendly enemy, unknown." Well said, 
my friendly enemy, not quite, perhaps, so un- 
know^n as thou esteemest. Now for mine answer: 
' Kind friendly enemy : Thine eloquences will 
be much better spent on Kildare, in urging 
him to raise the siege, than my poor accents on 
the stubborn Geraldine. Wherefore I commend 
thee to thy task, and warn to beware of my kins- 
men's bills, which, how shrewdiv they can bite, 



52 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 

none oiig-ht to know better than the Lord Deputy 
and his followers. Thy thankful foe," 

The tablet was laid on the \vindo\v, and dis- 
appeared in tlie course of the night. On that 
which followed, while jMargaret and her maid 
were occupied, as before, in preparing for rest, a 
noise at the window aroused the attention of the 
mistress, and struck the woman mute with terror. 
Dismissing the latter into the sleeping-chamber, 
which lay adjacent, and carefully shutting the 
door, the daughter of the Geraldine advanced to 
the window, and unbarred the curtained lattice. 
A brilliant moon revealed the lake, in the midst 
ot which the castle rose upon the summit of a rock, 
the guarded causeway b}^ which it was connect- 
ed with the shore, tlte distant camp of Kildare, 
and the tranquil v/oods and hills extending far 
around. Beneath her, on the rock, appeared a 
figure, the identity of which she could not for an 
instant mistake ; but how it came thither, to what 
intent, and wherefore undetected, was more than 
she had skill to penetrate. Perhaps, like a second 
Leander, he had braved the waves with no other 
oar than his own vigorous limbs. But the stern 
of a little currach, peeping from beneath the 
overhanging rock, gave intimation that Sir Ulick 
(for he indeed it v/as) knew a trick worth two of 
Leander's. Waving his hand to Margaret, he 
ascended the formidable crag which still separat- 
ed him from the window of her apartment, and 
came even within whispering distance. He did 



The Raven's Nest. 53 

but come to be sure that she at least was not in 
want of food. It so happened that this side of the 
rock alone was unguarded, being supposed im- 
pregnable from the steepness of its ascent, as well 
as of that of the opposing shore. Sir UHck, how- 
ever, gliding under the shadow of the distant cliff, 
and only venturing to dart for the isle when the sky 
was darkest, had already visited it for three suc- 
cessive nights, and seemed, at every new venture, 
more secure of his secret. The alarm of Margaret, 
however, was excessive. The discovery of an in- 
tercourse would be certain death to one or both ; 
for the Geraldine, in a case of treason, whether 
real or apparent, would not spare his nearest blood. 
The same, as Sir Ulick was himself aware, was 
true of the Lord Deputy. Made bold, however 
by impunity, he quieted the lady's fears, and with- 
out much difficulty communicated to her mind 
the security of his own. His visits were continu- 
ed for a week without interruption; after which 
period, the fair Geraldine observed with per- 
plexity and uneasiness that they terminated ab- 
ruptly, nor did she for an equal space of time see 
or hear anything that could account for this sud- 
den disappearance of her accomplished friend. 

One night, as she sat in her window, looking out 
with the keenest anxiety for the little wicker skiff, 
she observed, with a thrill of eagerness and de- 
light, some dark object gliding close beneath the 
cliffs upon the opposite shore. The unclouded 
brightness of the moon, however, prevented the 



54 ^(■'i^f Hours 7vith Irish Authors. 

approach of the boat; and her suspense had reach- 
ed a painful height, before the sk_y grew dark. 
At length a friendly cloud extended its veil be- 
neath the face of the unwelcome satellite ; and in 
a few minutes the plash of oars, scarce louder tnan 
the ripple of the wavelets against the rock, gave 
token to the watchful ear of Margaret of the 
arrival of the long-expected knight. A figure 
ascends the rock ; the lattice is unbarred; there 
is sufficient light to peruse the form and features 
of the stranger. It is not Sir Ulicl<:, but Thomas 
Butler, ih.Q fidus Achates and only confidant of the 
youthful knight. 

''What, Thomas, is it thou? VvHiere is thy 
lord?" 

" Ah ! lady, it is all over with Sir Ulick ! " 

'' How sayest thou ?" 

*' He is taken, lady, by the Lord Deputy's 
servants, and stands condemned in the article of 
treason." 

These dreadful tidings, acting on spirits already 
depressed by a sudden disappointment, proved 
too much for Margaret's strength, and she fainted 
away in the window. On reviving, she obtained 
from Thomas a full detail of the circumstances 
which had occurred to Sir Ulick since his last 
appearance at the island, and the cause in which 
they had their origin. 

About a week before, the Lord Deputy was 
sitting at evening in his tent, when a scout arrived 
to solicit a private audience. It was granted ; 



The Raven s Nest. 55 

and the man averred that he had discovered the 
existence of a treasonable comn:iunication between 
the inhabitants of the island and the shore. In his 
indignation at this announcement, Kildare made 
a vow that the w^retch, whoever he was, should 
be cast alive into the Raven's Nest ; and appoint- 
ed a party to v/atch on the following night on the 
shore beside the cliffs, for the return of the traitor 
from the rock. Having given the men strict 
mjunctions to bring the villain bound before him 
the instant he should be apprehended, he ordered 
a torch to be lighted in his tent, and remained up 
to avv'ait the issue. 

Towards morning, footsteps were heard ap- 
proaching the entrance of the tent. The sentinel 
challenged, and admitted the party. The astonish- 
ment of Kildare may be conceived, when, in the 
fettered and detected traitor, against whom he 
had been fostering his liveliest Vv^ratb, he beheld 
his gallant son, the gay and heroic Ulick ! The 
latter did not deny that he had made several night- 
ly visits to the island ; but denied with scorn the 
imputation of treasonable designs, although he 
refused to give any account of what his real mo- 
tives were. After long endeavoring, no less by 
menace than entreat}^ to induce him to reveal 
the truth, the Lord Deputy addressed him vrith 
a kindness which affected him more than his 
severity. 

'T believe thee, Ulick," he said; ''I am sure 
thou art no traitor. Nevertheless, thv father 



56 Hcilf Hours zvitJi Irish Authors, 

must not be thy judge. Go plead thy cause be- 
fore the Lords of Council, and see if they will 
yield thee as ready a credit. I fear thou wilt find 
it otherwise ; but thou hast thyself to blame." 

A court was formed in the course of a few days 
consisting of Kildare himself, as resident, and 
a few of the Council, who w^ere summoned for the 
purpose. The facts proved before them were 
those already stated ; and Sir Ulick persisted in 
maintaining the same silence with respect to his 
designs or motives as he had done before his 
father. It seemed impossible, under such cir- 
cumstances, to acquit him ; and, having received 
the verdict of the court, the Lord Deputy gave 
orders for the fulfilment of his 'dreadful vow. 

On the night after his sentence, his attendant, 
Thomas Butler, obtained permission to visit him 
in his dungeon ; and received a hint from Kildare, 
as he granted it, that he w^ould not fare the w^orse 
for drawing his master's secret from him. Ulick, 
however, was inflexible. Fearing the danger to 
Margaret's life, no less than to her reputation, he 
maintained his resolution of suffering the sentence 
to be executed, without further question. '' The 
Lords of Council," he said, '' were as well aware 
of his services to the king's government as he could 
make them ; and, if those services w^ere not suffi- 
cient to procure him credit in so slight a matter, 
he would take no further pains to earn it." 

Disappointed and alarmed, on the eve of the 
morning appointed for the execution, Thomas 



The Raven s Nest. 57 

Butler, at the hazard of his life, determined to seek 
the lady Margaret herself, and acquaint her with 
what had occurred. The daughter of Geraldine 
did not hesitate long about the course she should 
pursue. Wrapping a man's cloak around her 
figure, with the hood (for in those days, fair read- 
er, the gentlemen wore hoods) over her head, 
she descended fi-om the window, and succeeded 
in reaching the boat. A few minutes' rapid row- 
ing brought them to the shore. It was already 
within an hour of dawn, and the sentence \s^as to 
be completed before sunrise. Having made fast 
the currach in a secret place, they proceeded 
amongst crag and copse in the direction of the 
Raven's Nest. The dismal chasm was screened 
b}^ a group of alder and brushwood, which con- 
cealed it from the view until the passenger ap- 
proached its verj^ brink. As they came within 
view of the place, the sight of gleaming spears 
and yellow uniforms amongst the trees made the 
heart of INIargaret sink with apprehension. 

" Run on before, good Thomas !" she exclaimed ; 
" delay their horrid purpose but a moment. Say 
one approaches who can give information of the 
whole." 

The fetters, designed no more to be unbound, 
were already fastened on the wrists and ankles 
of the 3^oung soldier when his servant arrived, 
scarce able to speak for w'eariness, to stay the 
execution. He had discovered, he said, the v/hole 
conspiracy, and there was a witness coming on 



58 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 

who could reveal the object and the motive of the 
traitors, for there were more than one. At the 
same instant, Margaret appeared, close vv'rapt in 
her cloak, to confirm the statement of Butler. At 
the request of the latter, the execution was delaj^ed 
while a courier was despatched to the Lord 
Deput}'- with intellig-ence of the interruption that 
had taken place. In a few minutes he returned, 
bringing a summons to the whole party to appear 
before the Lords of Council. They corapUed 
without dela}', none being more perplexed than 
Sir Ulick himself at the meaning of this strange 
announcement. 

On arriving in the camp, the unknown infor- 
mant entreated to be heard in private by the 
Council. The request was granted ; and iNLargaret, 
still closel}^ veiled, vvas conducted to the hall in 
wliich the judge sat. On being commanded to 
uncover her head, she replied : 

'' jNIy lords, I trust the tale I have to tell may 
not require that I should make known the person 
of the teller. JNIy Lord Deputy, to you the drift 
of my story must have the nearest concern. 
When you bade the Geraldine to your court of 
Dublin, he was accompanied by an only daughter, 
INIargaret, Vv'hom your son Ulick saw and loved. 
He was not without confessing his affection, and 
I am well assured that it was not unanswered. 
<3n the very evening, my Lord Deputy, before 
that most unhappy affray which led to 3^our dis- 
union, and to the dissolution of our — of Sir Ulick's 



The Raven s Nest, 



59 



hopes, a mutual avowal 'had been made, and a 
mutual pledge of faith (modestly, my lords) ex- 
changed, always under the favor of our — of the 
noble parents of the twain. My Lords, 1 have it 
under proof that the visits of Sir Ulick v/ere 
made to the Lady Margaret, that to no other 
individual of the castle were they knov/n, and 
that no weightier converse ever passed between 
them than such silly thoughts of youthful affection 
as may not be repeated before grave and reverend 
ears like those to which I speak." 

'' i\nd what ma}^ be thy proof, stranger?" said 
the Lord Deputy, with a tenderness of voice 
Vv'hich showed the anxiet}^ her tale excited in his 
mind. 

" The w^ord of Margaret Fitzgerald," replied 
the Vvdtness, as she dropped the mantle from her 
shoulders. 

The apparition of the Geraldine's daughter in 
the council-chamber gave a wonderful turn to 
the proceedings. Kildare was the first to speak. 
He arose from his seat, and, approaching the spot 
vrhere the spirited 3-oung maiden stood, took her 
hand with kindness and affection. 

"In truth, sweet kinswoman," he said, "thou 
hast staked a sufficient testimony. And to be 
sure that it be so with all, as it be with Kildare, I 
promise thee to back it with my svv'ord*; and it 
shall go hard but th}^ honest-hearted speech shall 
save the Geraldine, his lands and tovv^ers to boot. 
My lords, T think I see by your countenances, that 



6o t^i-i^f Hours zi'iih Irish Authors. 

you deem the lad)^'s tale a truth. Then summon 
Ulick hither, and let a flag of truce be sent to the 
Geraldine, to let him know that his child is in safe- 
keeping. The Raven's Nest has taught me what 
he feels." 

The chroniclers of New Auburn conclude their 
story b}^ relating that the promise of the Lord 
Deputy was fulfilled ; that the affection of the 
heroic pair received the sanction of their parents ; 
and that, whenever afterwards in their wedded 
life a cloud seemed gathering at their castle 
hearth, the recollection of the Raven's Nest was 
certain to bring sunshine to the hearts of both. 



SIR BOWLING O'HARTIGAN. 



"Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day 
When the lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ; 
For the field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in flight." 

LochieVs Warning. 

AMONG the bravest of the followers of the 
celebrated Prince Murrough O'Brien, whose 
valor and devotion are not forgotten on his native 
soil, was a knight named Sir Dowling O'Harti- 
gan, w^hose character, like that of all the brighter 
ornaments of Irish chivalry, was a mixture of 
northern honor, of oriental fervor and devotion, 
and of the deepest and sincerest religions feeling. 
In reading the accounts of other days, the pride 
of modern times takes umbrage at the profound 
humihty Avhich is traced out amid the glorious 
workings of old heroic zeal, and the sordid levity 
of our commercial temperament is ready to scoff 
at the deeply seated and unselfish devotion which 
gave to the chivalry of the middle ages more 
tlian half its grandeur. In those days, the heart 
of mankind was still profoundly impressed \vith 
those great truths which, by keeping continually 
before the mind the transitory nature of all earthly 



62 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 

thing's, are best calculated to detach it from the 
baser interests, to elevate its desires, and enlarge 
its views. But what, gentlemen, has a character 
of the middle ages to do with my story ? And I 
feel conscious indeed of a somewhat ponderous 
commencement for a mere fairy tale; for such, 
after all, is the legend of Sir Bowling O'Hartigan. 
Everj^body who knows anything of Irish his- 
tor}^ must have heard of Brian Boru. This we 
assume as a postulate, without- which we can 
proceed no further. It is equally notorious that 
in the course of his reign he met Vv^ith no little 
annoyance from those unruly neighbors called the 
Danes, who had now for more than three centuries 
exercised a barbarous t3'ranny over the original 
inhabitants of the isle ; sometimes carrying 
it with a high hand, and sometimes suffering 
severely in the efforts made by the latter to rid 
themselves of their unfeeling assailants. Amongst 
the most distinguished of those native warriors 
who endeavored to aid the Ard-Righ, or Arch- 
kin2f Brian in his battles asrainst the lawless 
Scandinavian, was the knight whose name I have 
adopted as the title of my legend. None wielded 
the lann or the battle-axe with a more fatal skill; 
none stood more firm in the fight; and none 
appeared so indifferent to the reputation which 
his deeds had v/on him, as Sir Dowling O'Harti- 
gan. He fought not for fame, nor power, nor 
wealth, nor for Txwy selfish end, but purely for his 
dutv — duty to his prince, to his country, and to 



Sir Dozi'ling O' Hartigan. 6^ 

heaven ! Thus despising death, not from animal 
temperament alone, or the greediness of ambition, 
but on the principles of right reason, his valor was 
as constant and steadfast as it was heroic. 

It was a few da3^s before the famous battle of 
Clontarf, in which the venerable monarch gave 
his enemies a final overthrow, and lost his own 
life, that Prince Murrough received the orders 
of the Ard-Righ to be present, with all the force 
he could muster, at the royal camp within a stated 
time. At the moment v/hen the royal order 
arrived. Sir Dowling O'Hartigan was seated at 
the table of the prince. He immediately rose, 
and requested permission to return to his own 
home, in order to muster all the force he could 
command, and to bid adieu to his wife and family ; 
for it was foreseen that many a warrior Vv^ouid leave 
home for the approaching contest who might never 
return. The prince gave him permission to 
depart, after requesting him to be punctual as 
to the day of joining them with his force. 

Night had fallen before Sir Dowling reached 
the dreary wilds of Burrin, in which his house 
was situated. The sky was dark and stormy, and 
the knight commanded his footboy, or daltin 
(whose duty it ordinarily was to run by his master's 
side, holding the stirrup), to mount on his crupper, 
and to keep his seat as well as he might behind 
him. Thus doubly freighted, it was matter of 
wonder to master and squire with how much life 
and vigor the little hobby continued its journej/. 



64 Half Hours ivitk Irish Authors. 

It was interrupted, however, in rather a singular 
manner. At a gloomy turn in the road the hob- 
by stopped with so much suddenness, that the 
two riders, were it not for Sir Dow ling's supe- 
rior horsemanship, would, by the impetus of their 
own motion, have continued their journey home- 
ward in the air for at least a yard or two beyond 
the hobby's head. Still as a stone statue stood 
the animal, seeming neither to hear the voice of 
the knight, nor to feel the still more cogent remon- 
strances which were applied with profusion both 
to rib and flank. 

'* You might as well let him alone, Sir Dowling," 
said the daltin. 

" Why do you think so, Duach ?" 

'' Because Ireland wouldn't make her stir now. 
There's something near us, masther, that's not 
good." 

'' Foolish being !" said the knight ; *' descend 
and see what is the matter." 

" Me ! me get down !" exclaimed Duach ; *' I 
had rather face a whole cath of the Loch-Lannoch.* 
Masther, asthore, get down A^ourself, since you 
ar'n't in dread of them." 

Sir Dowling complied, compassionating the 
weakness of his attendant, and giving the reins to 
the awe-struck daltin. Advancing a few paces, 
he beheld, by the faint light which the stormy sky 
afforded, the figure of a woman in a sitting posture 
on the right-hand side of the road, with the hood 

* A name given to the Northern pirates 



Sir Doivling O' Hartigan. 65 

of her cloak turned over her head, and her arms 
clasped in an attitude of profound affliction. 

''Who's there?" exclaimed Sir Dowlinof in a 
peremptory tone. 

There was no repl3\ 

" Speak !" said the knight. " If 3'ou be in sorrow, 
tell your sorrow ; if not, retire and let my hobby 
pass the road." 

Still neither sound nor motion on the part of the 
hooded figure gave sign of attention or of com- 
pliance, and it was not until the knight added 
menace to his words that he was able to procure 
an answer. 

"You're like the rest of the world," said the 
woman, slowly revealing in the faint light her 
worn and wrinkled features, " that never knows 
its friends." 

" Is that Nora?" asked Sir Dowling, in astonish- 
ment. 

" It is. Ah ! Sir Dowling, a'ra gal, I'm in trou- 
ble." 

'' Upon what account, Nora ?" asked the knight. 

'' I'll tell you, then. Do you know that lake you 
used to be so fond of fishing in when you used to 
go to visit your relations in the county Galway ?" 

"Do you mean Lough Ennel ?" 

" The very same." 

"I do, indeed," replied the knight. "Many a 
pleasant day and moonlight night I spent upon 
the banks or on its waters. It was a fine lake for 
fish." 



^ Half Hours zvitJi Irish Aitihors. 

"Well, a'ra gal, you'll never spend another there, 
except you go to the county Westmeath for it." 

'' To the county Westmeath !" exclaimed Sir 
Dowling, in astonishment. 

"To the county Westmeath, achree. 'Tis 
there Lough Ennel is now, and there it will re- 
main, I'm very much in dread." 

" Nonsense !" said the knight ; " did I not see it 
with my own eyes the last time I was in Gal way, 
and didn't I send the prince a basket of the finest 
trout he ever tasted, that I took in the ver}^ mid- 
dle of it with my own hands? \Vhat nonsense!" 
said the kniglit. " How could it be in the county 
Westmeath?" 

"Oh! then, through nothing in the world, only 
my folly," said the old woman, " that couldn't but 
go lend it to an old neighbor of mine, a decent 
w^oman, as I thought her, that lives in those parts, 
and now she w^on't return- it." 

"Well, Nora," said Sir Dowling, " I'm surpris- 
ed at you. Is it possible? A woman of your 
sense to go lend such a lake as that I And sure 
you ought to know them Leinster people before 
now, how hard it is to get anything from them. 
There's hardly an Ard-Righ we had this length of 
time but was heart-broken with them, trying to 
get their tribute. I thought you'd have had more 
sense, Nora." 

" Oh ! then," said the old woman, " who'd ever 
think that she'd serve me such a trick? Last 
summer twelvemonth, she sent over to mc her 



Sir Dowling O' Hartigaii. 6^ 

compliments, and slie'd be obliged to me for the 
loan, of a lake for a little while — Vv^estmeath being 
an inland place, where it was very hard to get 
iish, and she knew that I couldn't miss it much, as 
Connaught was bordering upon the sea-coast — and 
that she'd return it faithfully on the first Monday 
of the month. Well, I didn't like to refuse her, 
for she has greater power than I have, and might 
do me some mischief; so I took Lough Ennel, and 
rolled it up in an apron, and sent it off to her, 
with my compliments, and that I was happy to 
have it in my power to accommdate her. She 
kept the lake ; and the first Monday of the month 
came, and the first Monday after, and she never 
sent it home, and little thanks she gave me when 
I sent for it, neither. I waited as long as I had 
patience to wait, but not a sight of Lough Ennel 
did I see from that day to this." 

'' And you are going to look after it now ?" said 
Sir Dowling. 

*' I'm going now to look after it," replied the 
witch; ''but indeed I'm afraid it is little good 
for me. This is my thanks for being obliging." 

I may remark that old Nora was right in her 
apprehensions, as may be ascertair^ed by reference 
to Shaw Mason's Topography, or the Collectanea; 
for there lies Lough Ennel to this day in the 
middle of the county Westmeath, whose inhabi- 
tants continue to enjoy the fruits, or rather the 
fishes, of the old woman's dishonesty, while tbe 
poor Galway mountaineer stands often supperless 



6S Half Hours wUh Irish Authors. 

upon the heights of Farmoyle, and overlooks the 
wide and barren flat where once Lousfh Ennel 
basked and tumbled in the sun. It is true that 
the time of possession specified in the Statute of 
Limitations has long since expired : but there are 
points in this case which render it a peculiar one, 
and I have no doubt that a Chancery injunction 
might readily be obtained to prevent any intermed- 
dlins: with the fish until the case should have been 
fairly argued in equity, and finally adjudged. 

'' But this," continued old Nora, '' is not the 
only nor the principal cause of my trouble. I 
had rather all the lakes in Galway were in West- 
meath than to hear what I heard to-night, and to 
know what I know." 

** What did you hear>" enquired Sir Dowling. 

"I heard thousands of Irish wives and mothers 
lamentins: over the slain and wounded in the 
battle of Clontarf." 

*' You heard them lamenting," said the knight, 
'^ for a calamity which did not yet take place." 

'' But it is certain," said the woman. *' When 
the oak shall be levelled by the storm, what will 
become of the underwood ? You know not what 
this means now, but you will if you should live 
another week." 

" Explain yourself plainly," said Sir Dov,ding. 
'' Whatever be the issue, it is better I should be 
prepared for it. I am to join the standard of 
Prince Murrough at the battle, and I am now 
returning to take leave of my family and friends." 



Sir Dozi'ling O' HartigcDi. 69 

The woman remained silent for some moments, 
and then suddenly said : 

''Return and collect your force, and meet me 
here to-morrow evening- an hour before midnight 
■ — alone — and be sure you do not fail." ^ 

With these words she disappeared, and Sir 
Dowling O'Hartigan, in much perplexity, con- 
tinued his journey. He arrived at his castle, 
arranged his temporal affairs, and made the 
necessary preparation becoming one who was 
about to encounter imminent danger. On the fol- 
lowing day, having bid adieu to those amongst 
his friends who were to remain behind, he set 
forward at the head of a strong party, horse and 
foot, with whom he encamped after nightfall 
within a short distance of the place of meeting. 

About an hour before midnight, Sir Dowling, 
throwing his war-cloak around him, advanced to 
the rendezvous, where he found old Nora already 
expecting him, with an air of deeper anxiet}^ and 
apprehension than she had shown the night before. 

" Are you resolved. Sir Dowling," she said, " to 
join the standard of O'Brien at Clontarf ?" 

" Is my prince to be there," said Sir Dowling, 
'' and shall I not be there ?' 

" Beware !" 

''Of what?" 

" I passed the field last evening, and the color 
of death was upon the sod." 

** The Men of the Cold Hills, mother, shall 
make that^vision good." 



yo V/^?// Hours -u'li/i. Irish AiitJiors. 

" Beware I" said the old woman again, elevat- 
ing her finger with a warning look. " Death reaps 
his harvest without regard to the equality of the 
grain— the weed and the whcat»ear together fall 
beneath his sickle. He is a blast that blov/s its 
poison indiscriminately upon all that is fair and all 
•that is hideous on the earth — the tender floweret 
of the spring that faints, and shrinks, and fades be- 
neath a vv^ind too chill ; and the marble rock that 
accumulates its bulk forages, and, when its date is 
reached, rots atom after atom into the embrace of 
the grim destroyer, are both alike his victims. The 
ape that gibbers on the bough, and the sage that 
meditates beneath the shade — the coward that 
skulks behind a fence, and the warrior that braves 
him in the daylight — the eagle in the plains of air, 
and the wren upon the summ.cr spray — the lion 
in the bosom of the woods, and the hare that 
glides in the moonlight — the leviathan with the 
caves of the ocean, and the starhsh spangling the 
wave upon its surface ; nay, even the very ele- 
ments that feed those million shades and rich 
varieties of life, are all subjected to, and must 
at some time feel, his power. In the deepest 
shades, in the heart of the densest substances, 
there is no escaping that pervading principle 
of ruin. His wings overshadow the universe, 
and his breath penetrates to the centre. The 
tears of the forlorn and the bereaved, the sigh 
of the widow and orphan, move him not, he 
has no capability of relenting ; to him the Loch 



Sir Dowli)ig O' Ilariigan. yi 

Lannoch and the children oF the Dal Gais are 
alike." 

'' Vv^hatever be my fate," said Sir Dowling, '' I 
will never leave a tarnished reputation after rae. 
The war-cry of the Strong- Hand '- shall never find 
Sir Dowlins; slow to second it. But tell me if 
those fatal indications which look on you from the 
future point directly at m}^ life, or at that of my 
prince?" 

" I can only answer for 3'our own," said the 
hag ; ''and I cannot even guess at your fate with- 
out 3^our own assistance. Go to the top of yon^ 
der hill, and tell me Avhat you see." 

Sir Dowling O'Hartigan obeyed, and in a short 
time returned to the place where he had left the 
old woman. 

"■ I have seen," said he, " a woman clothed in 
saffron, and with golden ornaments upon her neck 
and shoulders." 

''The sign is fatal," said the old woman, shak- 
ing her head; "go again, and go to the other 
side of the hill." 

Again he went, and again he came. 

" I have seen," said he, " a woman clothed in 
white, and wearing silver ornaments." 

" More fatal yet," exclaimed the hag, with a 
still more ominous shake of the head ; " go yet 
once more, and take the vv^estern side of the 
ascent." 

* He alludes to the motto of the O'Briens—" i:.i;«/t Laidler a ho^ " or, " The 
Strong Hand for ever ! " 



*J2 Half Hours -with Irish Authors. 

A third time Sir Bowling went, and a third 
time did Sir Dowlino- O'Hartis^an return. 

" I have seen," said he, '' a woman clothed in 
black, and w^earing no ornament wdiatever." 

*' It is completed then," said the woman ; " and 
your fate, if 3'ou should join the fight at Clontarf, 
is fixed beyond all doubt. You die upon the 
field." 

*' I know not how^ that ma}^ be," answered the 
knight, '^ but I am sure I shall be w^ith my prince, 
wherever he is." 

'* Abstain from the fi^eld, Sir Dovvding," said the 
v/oman, lookinsf on him wdth much earnestness. 
" I was present when 3'ou received in your boy- 
hood the order of knighthood. The w^ icker shield 
w'as hung up in the centre of the field, and 3^ou 
were provided with your lance. 1 saw you shiver 
shaft after shaft from blade to hilt, wdiile the 
plains rang wath acclamations, and the ancient 
warriors tossed their beards in w^onder at the vi- 
gor of so young an arm. From that day to this I 
ever loved 3'our welfare, and I pra3^ 3'ou now con- 
sult it bv remaining from the field of Clontarf." 

Sir Bowling, how^ever, v/ould b3^ no means 
listen to her dishonorable though friendl3^ solici- 
tations. He became so impatient of those unw^or- 
thy suggestions that he turned his back at 
length, and w-as about to depart in considerable 
wrath. 

'' Stay, Sir Bowling ! " exclaimed the witch ; 
''although I cannot chancre the nature of the 



Si}' Dozvling O^ Hartiga7i. 73 

prophecy, I will do my utmost to prolong your 
life. Take this cloak — it has the power of" ren- 
dering those who wear it invisible to the eyes of 
others. If it cannot avert the fate that threatens 
you, it may at least retard the term of its ap- 
proach. But above all things, I warn you let 
nothing ever induce 3'ou to resign the cloak until 
the fight is at an end ; if you do, you are lost." 

So saying, and flinging the filcad upon him, she 
hobbled ofl', without waiting for thanks, and took 
the way tovrards AVestmeath to recover her lost 
lake, and to harangue the borrower about her 
want of punctuality. 

" It might be pardoned," she muttered to her- 
self, as she moved along, ''if there were no other 
lake in the county Westmeath but the one, 
although even then the best that could be said of 
them is that they came by it shabbily enough ; 
but wdien they have Lough Iron, and Lough 
Owhel, and Lough Devereragh, and Lough Lane, 
and a good piece of Lough Ree ! — it is scandal- 
ous and unneighborly, and I will not submit to it. 
I'm sure it is we that ought to be borrowing lakes 
out of Westmeath, and not they out of Galway." 

Sir Dowling, in the meantime, returned. De- 
sirous to ascertain whether old Nora's cloak did 
in reality possess the wonderful virtue which she 
ascribed to it, he paused at a little distance from 
the first sentinels, and fastened it about his neck. 
To his astonishment, he passed all the guards suc- 
cessively, without receiving a single challenge, 



74 i^<:^U J^oiirs rcitJi Irish Authors.. 

and reached his own quarters unobserved. Herjc 
he found Duach lying haL^ asleep by the watch- 
lire, which had been lighted for Sir Bowling's 
use. Knowing his daltin to be one of those per- 
sons who are sensible of scarcely an}- fear, except 
that which is referred to a supernatural object, he 
determined to put the power of the cfoak to a 
still surer test. 

*' Duach I " exclaimed Sir Bowling — " Buach, 
awake ! " 

The daltin started up, and gazed around. 

*' Buach ! " continued the knight, '' here, take 
my cloak and lann, and watch while I lie down 
and take a few hours' sleep." 

" Mercy on me 1 " exclaimed the daltin, trem- 
bling. 

" Bo you hear me, sirrah ? Have you lost 3'our 
wits ? " 

" Tis the master's voice ! " said Buach, rubbing 
his eyes, and looking around on all sides ; '' but 
where in the earthly universe is he ? " 

*' Where am I, rogue ? Bo you not see me 
standing close to you ? " 

'' Well," cried Buach, *' I never was in trouble 
till now ! " 

At these words. Sir Bowling struck him pretty 
smartly over the shoulders with his sheathed 
sword. 

" If you do not see me, you shall feel me, 
sirrah," said the knight.^ 

At this unexpected assault, Buach, v/ith a yell 



Sir Dozvling O^ Hartigaii. 75 

that might have been heard across the Shannon, 
turned short, and would have fled the camp, had 
not Sir Dowling seized him by the skirt of his 
saffron coat, and held him firm. At the same time 
he undid the tie which made the mantle fast 
about his own neck, and stood visibly before the 
astonished daltin. 

** Well ! " exclaimed the latter, '' I often heard 
of wonders, but if this doesn't flog all Munster, 
it's no matter. Where in Europe were you, mas- 
ter ? Or where do 3^ou come from ? Or is it to drop 
out of the sky you did, or to rise out of the 
ground, or what ? " 

Nothing could exceed the amazement with 
which Duach heard his master relate the inter- 
view which he had with the old woman, and the 
extraordinary virtue of the cloak which she had 
lent him. 

'' I'll tell you what it is. Sir Bowling," said the 
daltin, '' I don't count it sufficient trial that the 
guards and myself couldn't see you, for people 
have often thick sight, and especially at night, 
that way ; but w^ait till morning, and the first 
shelling we pass where we'll see any pigs, you 
can put it on. They say pigs can see the very 
w^ind itself, so, if they don't see 3'ou, you may 
depend your life upon the cloak." 

vSir Bowling did not appear to think this test 
essential to his purpose, and, on the following- 
morning, he set forward, accompanied by his 
force, to join the standard of the Ard-Righ. That 



yC) Half Hours ivith Irish AuiJiors. 

monarch and his son, to whom he had deputed 
the command of the royal army on this occasion, 
were ah-eady on the field of battle when Sir 
Dowling O'Hartigan arrived. Many circum- 
stances combine to give a strong and lasting 
interest to this brilliant day in Ireland's clouded 
story. King Brian, who was seventy-six )'ears of 
age when he ascended the throne, had, in the 
course of twelve years ensuing, raised the condi- 
tion of the island to a state of almost unexam- 
pled prosperity, and acquired for himself the 
character of a saint, a hero, and a sage. His 
reign bears a closer resemblance to that of the 
French St. Louis, or the English Alfred, than 
that of any other Irish monarch whom we can 
call to mind. Devoted himself to the cultivation 
of letters and the practice of religion, he encour- 
aged both by every means which the prerogative 
of his station could afford. He founded many 
churches, and added his influence to that of the 
clergy in promoting a love of piety and virtue. 
He conciliated the friendship of the independent 
princes throughout the island by confirming their 
ancient privileges, and aiding them in the en- 
forcement of their authority. The success with 
which his efforts to establish national peace and 
harmony were attended has been celebrated in a 
legend with which all are familiar who have read 
the Irish melodies ; and, whatever be the truth of 
the story, it bears testimony at least to the repu- 
tation of the monarch with his subjects and their 



Sir Doivliiig O' Hariigan. yy 

prosperit}'. At the close of his reign, however, 
he had the affliction to combat with internal 
treachery and foreign invasion. The annalists 
tell us that Malmorda, the Righ, or inferior mon- 
arch of Leinster, aided by twelve thousand Danes, 
whom he had called in to aid him in his rebellious 
enterprise, arose in arms against his sovereign. 
The aged monarch w^as prompt in taking the field 
against the traitor and his foreign allies, nor were 
his subjects slow to second him. The field, when 
Sir Dowling entered it, presented a striking and 
animated spectacle. The Irish archers and sling- 
ers, with their small Scythian bows and kranta- 
bals; the gallow-glach heavily armed, with genu 
and battle-axe ; and the shoals of kerne, distin- 
guished by the hanging-cap, the ready skene at 
the girdle, and javelin in the hand, were arra3'ed 
between the royal tents and the rebel force. 
Amongst these last the island costume was shame- 
fully mingled with the chain armor of the invad- 
ers, and the Irish poll-axe advanced in the same 
cause with the ponderous Northern sparthe, 
which had so often drunk the blood of the help- 
less and unresisting in their towns and villages. 
Mindful of old Nora's warning, Sir Dowling 
O'Hartigan committed his men to the care of an 
inferior officer, and, fastening the cloak around 
his neck, passed, unobserved, to that part of the 
field where Prince Murrough O'Brien was in the 
act of persuading his age-stricken parent, the ven- 
erable Priam of the dav, to retire from a scene in 



78' Half Hours luitJi Irish Authors. 

which he could no longer afford assistance, and 
to await in his tent the issue of the combat. The 
monarch at length complied, and, bidding an 
affectionate farewell to his children of two gener- 
ations, who were about to risk all for his crown 
and people, slowly retired from the field ; and at 
the same instant Sir Dowling had the mortifica- 
tion to hear the prince give utterance to an 
exclamation of disappointment and surprise at 
his nonappearance. 

"It is the first' time," said Prince INIurrough, 
" that I ever knew Sir Dowling O'Hartigan untrue 
to his engagement." 

The knight had much difficulty in restraining 
himself from flinging away the cloak, and remov- 
ing the uneasiness of his prince, but the Avarning 
of Nora, and the fear that in the eagerness to 
manifest his loyalty he might lose the power of 
m.anifesting it in a more effectual way, enabled 
him to control his inclinations. 

The battle commenced, and Sir Dowling, tak- 
ing his position near the prince, wrought prodigies 
of valor in his defence. The prince and his immedi- 
ate attendants beheld with astonishment Dane 
after Dane, and traitor after traitor, fall mortally 
wounded to the ground, and yet none could say by 
whose weapon the blow was struck. More than 
once, the prince, as if his own strength were so gi- 
gantic that the mere intention of a blow on his part 
were more destructive than the practical exertions 
of another, saw his enemies fall prostrate at his feet 



Sir Doivling O' IIariiga7i. 79 

when he had but lifted his sword into the air above 
them. At length a Nordman of prodigious size 
came bearing down upon the prince, hewing all 
to pieces before him, and breaking the royal ranks 
with the strength of a rhinoceros. At the very 
instant when he had arrived within a sword's 
length of Murrpugh O'Brien, and while the latter 
Vfas in the act of lifting his shield in order to 
resist his onset, to the astonishment of all, and 
doubtless to his own, the head of the gigantic 
Nordman rolled upon the grass. The prince 
started back amazed. 

** These must be Sir Bowling's blows," he ex- 
claimed, " and yet I do not see the man !" 

" And what hand," cried Sir Dowling, flinging 
aside the cloak in a transport of death-defying 
zeal — '' whose hand has a better right than Sir 
Bowling's to do the utmost for a son of Brian?" 

He had scarcely given utterance to his v/ords, 
when the sparthe of a Loch Lannoch, who stood 
at some distance, came whistling through the air, 
and transfixed him on the spot, the victim of his 
own enthusiasm. The rest is known. The aged 
monarch, the prince, and many of their house, and 
four thousand of their followers shared the fate of 
Sir Bowling O'Hartigan ; but their country was 
redeemed in their destruction, for Clontarf did 
more than " scotch" the Banish hydra. It v/as 
never seen to raise one of its heads again in 
Ireland. 



STORY-TELLER AT FAULT. 

A TALE OF MAGIC. 



AT the lime when the Tuatha Danans held the 
sovereignty of Ireland, there reigned in' 
Leinster a king who was remarkably fond of 
hearing stories. Like all the princes and chief 
tains of the island at this early date, he had a 
favorite Story-teller, according to the custom of 
those times, who held a large estate from his 
majesty, on condition of his telling him a new 
story every night of his life, before he went to 
sleep, and sometimes with the laudable purpose of 
lulling him into that blissful condition. So inex- 
haustible was the genius of the King of Leinster's 
Story-teller that he had already reached a good 
old age without failing even for a single night to 
have a new story for the king ; and such was the 
skill and tact which he displayed in their con- 
struction that, whatever cares of state or other 
annoyances might prey upon the monarch's mind, 
one of his Story-teller's narratives Avas sure to 
make him fall asleep. 

In the course of his career, the Story-teller had 



The Story-Tdlcr at Fault. 8 1 

married a wealthy and high-born lady, daughter 
of a neighboring lord of that countr}^ with whom 
he lived in peace and prosperity during many 
years. There is nothing, however, in this world 
which is not subject to decay or change, and even 
the human mind, which, from its spiritual nature, 
might well be supposed incorruptible, is doomed 
to share the infirmities of the frame with which it 
is so m3'steriously united. The progress of old 
age began to produce a sensible influence on the 
imagination of the Story-teller. His fancy grew 
less brisk and active, and the king observed that 
he began to diversity his incidents with a greater 
number of moral and philosophical reflections than 
he conceived to be necessary to the progress of 
the narrative. However, he made no complaints, 
as the Story-teller's reflections evinced a great deal 
of judgment, and the grand object in view, that of 
setting the king to sleep, was as perfectly accom- 
plished by his philosophy as by his wit or invention. 

Matters thus proceeded, the Story-teller grow- 
ing older and older, and more and more philoso- 
phical, and less and less fanciful, but he was yet 
true to his eno:a2:ement, and never failed to have a 
new story at nightfall for the king's amusement. 
Every day, however, brought increasing indica- 
tions of an intellectual crisis, which would not be 
ver}^ distant. 

One morning, the Story-teller arose early, and, 
as his custom was, strolled out into his garden, and 
through the adjacent fields, in order to turn over 



82 Half Hours zvitJi Irish Authors, 

in his rnind some incidents which he misfht weave 
into a story for the king at nig-ht. But this morn- 
ing he found himself quite at fault; after pacing 
his whole demesne, he retuimed to his house, 
without being able to think of anything new or 
strange. In vain he sent his fancy abroad, it 
returned as empty as it left him. He found no 
difhculty in proceeding as far as ** There was once 
a king who had three sons," or ^* There lived in the 
reign of Ollav Folia, " or '' One day the king of all 
Ireland," but further than that he found it im- 
possible to proceed. At length a servant came 
to announce to him that breakfast was ready, and 
his mistress waiting for him in the house. He 
went in, and found his wife seated at the table, and 
looking much perplexed at his delay. She was 
not long observing the air of chagrin that over- 
spread his countenance. 

'' Why do you not come to breakfast, my 
dear?" said his wife. 

" I have no mind to eat anything," replied the 
Story-teller. ** As long as I have been in the ser- 
vice of the King of Leinster, I never yet sat down 
to breakfast without having a new story to tell 
him in the evening; but this morning my mind is 
quite shut up, and I don't know what to do. I 
might as well lie down and die at once. I'll be 
disgraced for ever this evening, when the king 
calls for his Storj^-teller." 

*' That's strange," said the wife. '' Can't you 
think of anvthing new at all ?" 



The Story-Tcllcr at Fault. 83 

" Nothing whatever ; the door of my mind is 
locked against it." 

'* Nonsense !" said his wife. *' Can't you invent 
something about a giant, or a dwarf, or a Bean 
Mhor (huge woman), or a baoch (champion) from 
foreign parts .^" 

** Oh ! it is easy enough to find heroes," replied 
the Story-teller; '' but what am I to do with them 
when I have them ? " 

^' And can't you invent anything at all? " 

'' I cannot our estate is gone from us for ever ; 
besides the open show that will be made of me 
to-night at the palace." 

When the Story-teller's wife heard this dread- 
ful news, she broke into a fit of crying and weep- 
ing, as if all her friends and relations were dead. 
At length her husband prevailed on her to be 
composed. 

■ " Well," said she, *' let us sit down to breakfast, 
at any rate; the day is long yet, and may be 
you'd think of something or another in the course 
of it." 

The Story-teller shook his head as if to inti- 
mate his distrust of its contents, but sat down to 
breakfast as his v/ife desired. W^hen all was 
removed, and they had sat for awhile in silence : 

'' Well," she asked, " do you think of anvthing 
yet?" 

" Not a pin's worth," said the Stor}- -teller. " I 
might as well lie down and die at once." 

'' Well, my dear," said the lady, 'Til tell you 



84 /A?^ Hours with Irish Authors. 

what you'll do. Order 3'our horses and chariot, 
and let us take a good long drive, and may be 
something might come into your head." 

The Storj^-teller complied, and the chariot was 
prepared. Two of his finest horses were har- 
nessed in the carriage, and three favorite hounds 
followed them. After driving a long distance, 
they took the road homeward once more, and 
toward evening, when they came within sight of 
their own demesne, the lady again asked her hus- 
band if he had yet thought of anything to tell the 
king. 

*' There is no use in my attempting it," he re- 
plied, " I can think of nothing. I'm as far from 
having anything new as I was Avhen we left 
home." 

At this moment, it happened that the lady saw 
something dark at the end of a field at a little 
distance from the road. 

" My dear," said the wife, " do you see some- 
thing black at the end of that field ? " 

'* I do," replied her husband. 

** Let us drive towards it," said the wife, " and 
perhaps it might be the means of putting some- 
thing into your head which it would answer to 
tell the king." 

*' I'll do as you desire," replied the Story-teller, 
" though I am sure it is no use for me." 

They turned the horses' heads and drove in the 
direction pointed out by the lady. When thev 
drew nigh, thcv saw a miscrable-lookinof old man 



TJlc Siory-Tc'/Ier at Fault. 85 

lying on the ground witli a wooden leg placed 
beside him. 

''Who are 3'ou, my good man?" asked the 
Story-teller. 

*' Oh ! then, 'tis little matter who I am. I'm a 
poor old lame, decrepit, miserable creature, sit- 
ting down here to rest awhile." 

*' And what are you doing with that box and 
dice I see in 3^our hand ? " 

" I am waiting here to see whether any one 
would play a game with me," replied the old 
bococh (beggar-man). 

*' Play with yoii ? " exclaimed the Story-teller. 
" Why, what has a poor old man like you to play 
for?" 

'' I have one hundred pieces of gold here in this 
leathern purse," replied the old man. 

'' Do you go down and play with him," said the 
Story-teller's wife, " and perhaps you might have 
something to tell the king about it in the eve- 
ning." 

He descended, and a smooth stone was placed 
between them as a gaming-table. They had not 
cast many throws, when the Story-teller lost all 
the money he had about him. 

*' Much good may it do you, friend," said the 
Story-teller. '* I could not expect better hap in 
so foolish an undertaking." 

" Will you play again? " asked the old man. 

*' Don't be talking, man ; you have all my 
monev.-' 



86 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 

" Haven't you a chariot, and horses, and 
hounds?" 

''Well, what of them?" 

" I'll stake all the money I have against them." 

*' Nonsense, man ! " exclaimed the Storj^-teller. 
" Do you think for all the gold in Ireland, I'd run 
the risk of seeing m}^ lady obliged to go home on 
foot?" 

'' Ma}' be you'd win," said the bococh. 

" May be I wouldn't," said the Story-teller. 

" Do play with him, husband," said the lady. 
*' It is the second time, and, as he won before, you 
might Vvin now. Besides, I don't mind walking." 

'' I never refused 3^ou a request in my life that 
it vras possible to comply with," said the Story- 
teller, " and I v.-on't do so nov/." 

He sat down accordingl3%and in one throu- lost 
horses, hounds, and chariot. 

'' Will you play again ? " asked the bococh. 

" Are you making game of me, man ? " said the 
Story-teller. "-What else have I to stake? " 

'' I'll stake the whole money and all against your 
lady," said the old man. 

Nov/, although these were pagan times, the 
Story-teller could not help thinking the bococh 
had a great deal of impudence to make him such 
a proposition. However, he only looked at him 
Avith an expression of great surprise, and Vv'as 
turning away in silence, wdien his wife spoke to 
him a2:ain. 

"Do, mv dear," said she, ''accept his offer. 



The Story-Tdlcr at Fault. 87 

This is the third time, and how do j^ou know 
what luck you may have ? Besides, if you lose 
3' our estate to-night, as 3'ou are afraid, sure I'd 
be only a bother to you all our life." 

" Is that the Avay you talk," said the Story- 
teller — " you that I never refused a request to 
since first I saw you? " 

" Well," said she, *' if you never refused me a 
request before, don't refuse me this one now, and 
may be it would be better for us both. You'll 
surely win the third time." 

They played again, and the SLor3'-teller lost. 
No sooner had he done so, than, to his great 
astonishment and indignation, he beheld his 
lady walk over and sit down near the ugl3^ old 
bococh. 

'' Is that the Avay 3"0u're leaving me?" said the 
Story-teller. 

" Sure I was won, m3^ dear," said the lad3^ > ^'3'ou 
would not cheat the poor man, would 3'ou ?" 

'^ Have 3^ou an3^ more to stake?" asked the 
old man. 

''You know ver3^ well I have not," replied the 
Stor3^-teller. 

'' I'll stake the whole, now^, 3^our lady and all, 
against 3^ourself," said the old man. 

" Nonsense, man !" said the Stor3^-teller. '* What 
in the world business would you have of an old 
fellow like me ?" 

" That's m3^ own affair," said the bococh. '' I 
know m3'self what use I could make of 3'ou ; it is 



88 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 

enough for 3-011 if I am willing- to consider 3-0U a 
sufficient stake against all I have." 

*' Do, m}^ dear," said the lady ; ''surel}' you do 
not mean to leave me here after you ?" 

The Stor}'- - teller complied once more, and 
lost. 

'* Well," said he, with a desolate look, '' here I 
am for you now, and what do you want with me? 
You have the whole of us, now, horses and carriage* 
and mistress and master, and what business have 
3-ou of us?" 

'* I'll soon let you know what business I have of 
3'ou, at an3^ rate," said the old man, taking out of 
his pocket a long cord and a wand. *' Now," he 
continued, '' as I have possession of 3^our propert3^ 
I do not choose to be ann03-ed by you any longer, 
so I propose transforming 3^ou into some kind of 
an animal, and I give you a free choice to be a 
hare, or a deer, or a fox, whichever of the three 
best hits your fanc3\" 

The Story-teller in disma3^ looked over towards 
his wife. 

'' ]M3^ dear," said she, '' do not choose to be a 
deer, for, if 3^ou do, 3-our horns will be caught in 
the branches, and 3-ou Avill be starved with hun- 
ger ; neither choose to be a fox, for 3^ou will have 
the curse of everybody down upon 3'ou ; but 
choose to be an honest little hare, and eveiy one 
will love 3'ou, and 3'ou will be praised by high and 
low." 

"And is that all the compassion vou liave for 



The Story-TclUr at Fault, 89 

me ?" said the Story-teller. " Well, as I suppose 
it is the last word I have to say to you, it shall 
not be to contradict you, at any rate." 

So he made choice of a hare, and the old man 
immediately threw the cord around him, and 
struck him with the wand, when the transforma- 
tion was effected. Scarcely had the poor hare 
taken a skip or two, in order to divert himself, 
when the lady called the hounds, and set them 
after him. The hare ran, the dogs followed. The 
field in which they happened to be was enclosed 
by a high wall, so that the course continued a 
long time in the sight of the old man and the lady, 
to the great diversion of both. At length the 
hare, panting and weary, ran to the feet of the 
latter for protection. But then was witnessed a 
singular instance of the caprice and mutability of 
the sex, for the Story-teller's wife, forgetful of all 
his kindness experienced during a long course of 
years, unfeelingly kicked him back again towards 
the .dogs, from whence arose the proverb long 
current in after-times, Caith se a. glab no con (She 
threw him into the hound's mouth), as applied to 
all who act with similar ingratitude. They cours- 
ed him a second and a third time, and at the end 
of each the lady acted with the same heartless- 
ness, until at length the old man struck the hounds, 
and took the hare into his lap, where he held him 
for some time, until he had sufficiently recovered 
his strength. He then placed him on the ground, 
and, putting the cord around him, struck him with 



90 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 

the wand, on which he immcdiatcl}' rcassumed 
his own ibrm. 

" Well," said the old man, *' will you tell me 
how you liked that sport?" 

'* It might be sport toothers," replied the Stor}-- 
teller, looking at his wife, " but I declare I don't 
find it so enticing but I could put up with the 
loss of it. You're a droll man, whoever you are. 
Would it be asking an impertinent question to 
knou^ from you who you are at all, or where you 
came from, or what is 3^our trade, that you should 
take a pleasure in plaguing a poor old man of my 
kind in that manner?" 

** Oh !" replied the stranger. *' I'm a very odd 
kind of man — a sort of a walking good-for-little 
fellow — one day in poverty, another day in plenty 
— and so on — but if you wish to know anything 
more about me or m}^ habits, come with me in 
some of my rambles, and perhaps I might show 
you more then you would be apt to make out if 
you were to go alone." 

'' I'm not my own master to go or stay," replied 
the Stor3'-teller, with a resigned look. 

When the stranger heard this, he put one hand 
into the wallet which he carried at his side, 
and drew out of it before their eyes a well- 
lookiiig middle-aged man, to whom he spoke as 
follows: 

*' I command you by all you heard and saw 
since I put you into my wallet to take charge of 
this ladv, together with the carriage, and horses, 



The Story-Tcllcr at Fault. 9I 

and all, and have them ready for me at a call 
"whenever I shall require them." 

He had scarcely said these words when ail 
vanished from the Story-teller's sight, and he 
found himself on a sudden transported, he knew 
not how, to a place which he recognized as the 
Fox's Ford, well known as the residence of Red 
Hugh O'Donncll. On looking around, he saw 
the old man standing near him in a dress still 
more grotesque than before. His figure was 
now erect, though tall and lank, his hair gra}^ 
and his cars sticking up through his old hat. 
The greater part of his sword was exposed 
behind his liip ; he wore a pair of tattered brogues, 
which, at every prodigious stride he made over 
the marshy ground, sent the water in jets up to 
his knees; and in his hand he carried three green 
boughs. It happened on this very day that O'Don- 
ncll and his followers and kinsmen were partaking 
of a splendid banquet in his house. They were 
very merry, feasting and drinking together, and, 
as the Story-teller and his companion drew near, 
they heard one of the guests exclaim in a loud and 
commanding tone : 

*' Who will say he ever heard fnier music than 
that? Is it possible that twenty-two musicians 
could be found from this to the shores of Greece 
better skilled in their art than the twenty-two who 
are here to-day — I mean Darby McGillagan, Cor- 
mad O'Cregan, Timothy O'Cunningham, and many 
more whom I do not mention nowby name ?" 



93 Half Hours li'ith Irish AiitJiors. 

" We do not suppose," said several of his hear- 
ers, " that any such thing- is possible." 

At this moment, the Caol Riava (thin gray man) 
and the Story-teller entered the house. 

'' Save all here!" said the Caol Riava. 
• ■' And you likewise," replied O'Donnell. 
"Where do 3'Ou come from now?" 

'' I slept last night," replied the stranger, '' in 
the palace of the King of Scotland." 

''Call the door-keeper before me," said O'Don- 
nell. 

He was summoned accordingl3^ 

" Was it you let in this man ?" asked O'Don- 
nell. 

*' I give you free lave to whip the head from 
my two shoulders," replied the door-keeper, '' if 
ever I laid eyes upon him before this present 
moment." 

*' Let it pass," said the Caol Riava, '' for it 
would come just as easy to me to go out as to 
come in, whether the door was open or shut." 

Then turning to the musicians : 

"Play something- for us," said he, "that I may 
judge whether all that I have heard in 3^our 
praise be merited or otherwise." 

They began to play, first successively, and then 
in full concert, all kinds of airs and elaborate 
pieces of music, both on wind and stringed instru- 
ments; and, when they had concluded, all looked 
to the new-comer to learn his opinion of their 
performance. 



The Story-TcHcr at Fault. 93 

*' I assure you," said the Caol Riava, " that since 
I first heard of Beelzebub, and Moloch, and Satan, 
and the rest of their infernal compeers, and of the 
hideous uoise and uproar compounded of rage 
and lamentation which prevails in the dreary 
region of the demons and in the court of the sable 
princes of hell, I never could imagine worse 
music than what you are just after playing." 

'•■ Play something for us yourself, then," said 
O'Donnell. 

^* May be I will, and may be I won't," replied 
the Caol Riava; ''for 3'ou may be certain I \\\\\ 
do exactly what I like myself, and nothing else." 

" I don't doubt you," said O'Donnell. 

The Caol Riava then took a harp, and began to 
play in such a manner that the dead might have 
come out of their graves to hear him without 
occasioning any astonishment to those who knew 
the cause they had for so doing. As to the com- 
pany wdio were present, sometimes he would 
make them weep, sometimes laugh, and at other 
times he could lull them asleep with the power of 
his enchanting strains. 

'' You are a sweet man, whoever you are," said 
O'Donnell. 

'* Some days sweet, and some days bitter," replied 
the Caol Riava. 

" Go higher up, and sit in company with O'Don- 
nell, and eat along with him," said one of the 
attendants. 

'' I will do no such thing," replied the Caol 



94 Half Hours ivitli Lish AiitJiors. 

Riava, "for a pleasing accomplishment in an 
Ligl}^ fellow like me is like honey in the body of 
a man who is going to be hanged ; so I will go 
no higher up than where I am ; but let me see his 
goodness here, if he has a mind to show it at all." 

He kept his place, and O'Donnell sent him by 
the hands of an attendant a suit of attire, consist- 
ing of a cloak of many colors, a fine tunic, and 
other garments to match. 

'' Here," said the attendant, " is a full suit that 
O'Donnell sends you." 

" I will not accept it," replied the Caol Riava, 
*' for a good man shall never have to say that he 
lost so much by me." 

*' He is either an enemy or something more 
than mortal," said O'Donnell, when he heard 
that the stranger had refused his gifts. '' Let 
twenty horsemen in full armor keep guard 
outside of the house, and as many foot-soldiers 
be stationed inside to v/atch his movements." 

" What are 3'ou going to do with me ?" asked 
the long gray man, Avhen he saw the soldiers 
gathering round him. 

" We mean to have a sharp eye on you, that 
3'Ou may not give us the slip till dinner is over," 
said O'Donnell. 

*' You are very hospitable," replied the Caol 
Riava, " but I give you my word, if you were as 
good again, it is not with 3'Ou I'll dine to-day." 

''Where else will you dine?" asked O'Don- 
nell. 



TJw Story •Tt'Ucr at Fault. 95 

*' Far enough from you, you may be satisfied," 
replied the Caol Riava. 

" I pledge you my word," said one of the gallo- 
glasses on guard, *' if I tind you attempting to stir 
against O'Donnell's wish, I'll make pound pieces 
of you Avith my battle-axe." 

The Caol Riava made no reply, but took an 
instrument, and began to play as before, in such a 
mann'er that all within bewaring were enchanted 
with his music. He then laid aside the harp, and 
stood up in his place. 

''Now," he said, ''look to yourselves, you who 
are minding me, for I am off!" 

The instant he uttered these words, the soldier 
Avho before had menaced him raised his battle- 
axe, but, instead of wounding the stranger as he 
intended, he struck a heavy blow on the harness 
of the man who stood next him. The latter re- 
turned the stroke with the best of his will, and in 
a few moments the whole score of foot-guards 
were hewing at each other's heads and shoulders 
Avith their battle-axes, until the floor was strewed 
with their disabled bodies. In the midst of this 
confusion the Caol Riava came to the door-keeper, 
and said to him : 

" Go to O'Donnell, and tell him that, for a re- 
ward of twenty cows and a large farm rent 
free, you will undertake to bring his people to 
hfe again. When he accepts your proposal (as 
I know he will be glad to do), take this herb, 
and rub a little of it to the roof of each man's 



g6 Half Hours ivitJi Irish AutJiors. 

mouth, and he will be presently in perfect health 
asrain." 

The door-keeper did as he directed, and suc- 
ceeded perfectly, but, when he returned to thank 
his benefactor, to his great astonishment he could 
discover no trace of either him or the Storj-teller. 

It happened at this very time that a worthy 
man named iNIacEocha, of Leinster, a doctor in 
poetry, had been laid \ip with a broken leg more 
than eighteen weeks without receiving the least 
relief, although he had sixteen of the ablest 
surgeons in Leinster in consultation upon it. 
Happening to lift up his eyes as he sat before his 
door, he saw the Caol Riava and the Story-teller 
approaching, the former having only one large 
garment around him, and an Irish book in his 
hand, out of which he read aloud in one monoto- 
nous humming tone. 

" Save you, MacEocha," said the Caol Riava. 

" And you likewise !" replied MacEocha. ** May 
I ask you what is your profession?" 

'' Why," replied the Caol Riava, '' I am what 
vou may call the makings of a physician from 
Ulster." 

"■ And what is your name ?" 

" Call me Cathal o Gein, and I will answer to 
it," replied the stranger. *' I understand 3'ou are 
of a very churlish and inhospitable disposition, 
and, if you changed your conduct, I would be apt 
to cure your leg for you." 

''I acknowledge my failing," said MacEocha. 



The Story- Teller at Fault. gy 

* I am as niggardly as any miser until 1 take my 
third cup, but from that out I am easy as to what 
others may do. But I promise you if 3^ou cure 
me that I will not be guilty of that fault again." 

While he was speaking, the sixteen doctors 
who were in attendance on hiui came up to en- 
quire how he was getting on, upon which he told 
them- of the offer made by the Caol Riava. 

The doctors looked at the stranger and at the 
Stor3'-teller, and then laughed immoderately. 

*' 'Tis very well," said the Caol Riava, ** but 
wait a little. Rise up, now," said he to Mac- 
Eocha, " and let me see which can, 3^ou or your 
sixteen physicians, run fastest." 

Up started MacEocha, and away went the 
sixteen doctors after their patient, but he left them 
far behind, and came back in great spirits to his 
house, while they remained panting and puffing 
at a distance. 

*' Now, you MacEocha," said the stranger, *' do 
not be guilty of inhospitality or churlishness from 
'this time forward, or, if you do, I'll come to you 
again, and break your leg worse than it was be- 
fore, and not only that, but the other leg also I'll 
break in such a manner that all the surgeons in the 
Fenian hosts will not be able to cure it for you. 
As for these sixteen impostors that pretended to 
treat it for you, not one of them shall ever walk 
without a limp from this time forward." 

*' I promise 3'ou I will remember what 3'ou 
sa3%" replied MacEocha ; " and, to make a begin- 



98 Half Hours zvitli Irish Authors. 

ning, come in now and partake of a magnificent 
banquet which shall be prepared on the instant 
for you and your companion." 

They entered the house, and were followed by 
the sixteen physicians, who shortly after came 
limping across the threshold. However, while 
MacEocha was ordering the banquet, an atten- 
dant ran to tell him that the Ulster doctor was 
running down the hill which sloped away from 
the door, faster than a greyhound with a hare in 
his eye. MacEocha was so much surprised at 
his abrupt departure that he made these lines, 
which were often repeated after him : 

Though my trust in his skill and his learning is high, 
I'd have lilvcd him the better for bidding good-by: 
If the doctors of Ulster have all the same breeding, 
'Twere fitter they stuck to their cupping and bleeding. 

Meanwhile, the Story-teller and his strange 
master found themselves in a wild heath in Sligo, 
where they beheld O'Connor of Connaught, at 
the head of a powerful army, with a vast herd of 
cattle and other spoils which he had driven from 
the bondsmen of Munster. The Caol Riava went 
up and saluted him. 

** Save you, O'Connor," he said boldly. 

" And you likewise," replied the monarch. 
^* What is your name ? " 

** Call me Giolla De," said the Caol Riava. 
** What is the cause of the confusion which I 
observe amongst your forces? " 

■' We are expecting an attack from the Munster 



TJie Story-TcUc7' at Fault. 99 

men," replied the king, ''and are at a loss how 
to drive the spoils and repel the enemy at the 
same time." 

" What made you drive them at all ? " said the 
Caol Riava. 

*• You know," replied the king, " that a monarch 
ought always to be ready to redress the slightest 
grievance of his subjects. Now, it happened that 
a Connaught woman lent a basket to a woman 
of her acquaintance in Munster, who refused to 
return it at the appointed time. I heard of the 
injury, and immediately raised an army to avenge 
it. I am now returning with the spoils, a portion 
of which I intend to bestow on the poor woman 
who lost her basket." 

''And what will you do with the rest?" en- 
quired the GioUa De. 

" I will keep them myself," said the king, '' to 
signalize my victory, and enhance the national 
glory, after the way of all great kings." 

" I'm afraid it will give you enough to do," 
replied the Caol Riava, ''for, before you leave 
this heath, you will have more Munster men to 
meet you than there are purple bells all over 
it." 

" That's what I fear," said the king. 

" What will you give me if I help you?" said 
the Caol Riava. 

" You ! " cried one of O'Connor's men, with a 
burst of laughter. " It cannot make much differ- 
ence to O'Connor whether you go or stay." 



lOO Ihilf Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 

** What reward would you require?" asked 
O'Connor. 

'' A share, little or much, of anything you may 
get while I am with you," replied the GioUa De. 

*' Agreed," exclaimed the king. 

" Very well," said the Giolla De ; *' do you hold 
on )70ur journey, driving your spoils, while I coax 
the Munster men home again." 

The king proceeded, and saw nothing of the 
men of Munster until he reached his own do- 
main, where he arrived before any of his reti- 
nue. As he did so, he perceived the Giolla De 
and the Story-teller again by his side. Wearied 
from the fatigue of the expedition, after wel- 
coming them, he entered a sheiling by the \va)^- 
side, and called for a drink. It was brought, 
and he drank it off without even thinking of the 
Giolla De. 

'* I am sorry to see you forget your agreement," 
said the latter. 

*' Do 3^ou call that trifle a breach of my agree- 
ment ?" said the king. 

'- Ah !" replied the Giolla De, ''it is trifles that 
show the mind. You went to war for a basket, 
and you call a cup of wine a trifle." And he imme- 
diately spoke these lines : 

The wrong a king doth, were it huge as a mountain, 
He weighs it no more than a drop from the fountain ; 
The wrong a king suffers, though light as a bubble, 
Sends fools to the slaughter, and kingdoms to trouble. 
Thenceforth I'll not swear by the weight of a feather. 
Nor the firmness of ice in the sunny spring Avcnther ; 



The Story-Tcllcr at Fdult. loi 

But I'll swear by a lighter, more slippery thing, 
And my troth shall be plight, by the word of a king. 

The instant he had uttered these lines, the Caol 
Riava and the Story-teller vanished from the eyes 
of O'Connor, who looked around for them in vain 
in all directions. But what astonished him still 
more was that not a particle of all the spoils he 
had driven from Munster remained with his host, 
nor could anything be found throughout the whole 
army but an old basket, which the Connaught 
woman already spoken of recognized as the one 
she had lent to the Munster woman. While all 
were wondering at those strange events, the Caol 
Riava and the astonished Story-teller approached 
the house of a man named Thady O'Kell}^ who at 
that moment happened to be sitting at his own 
door, in the midst of his friends and depen- 
dents. The Caol Riava drew near, dressed in the 
same tattered garments as usual, and bearing a 
white crooked wand in his hand. 

"Save you, Thady O'Kelly," said the Caol 
Riava. 

*' And you likewise," replied Thad3\ '' From 
whence do you come?" 

" From the house of O'Connor, Sligo," answered 
the Caol Riava. 

" What is your occupation ?" asked Thady. 

" I am a travelling juggler," replied the stranger, 
" and if you promise to give me five pieces of sil- 
ver, I will perform a trick for you." 

*' I do promise you," said Thady. 



102 Half Hours luith Irish Authors. 

The Caol Riava then took three small sivccns or 
leeks, and placed them lengthwise on his hand, 
and said he would blow out the middle one and 
leave the two others in their places. All present 
said that such a feat was perfectly impossible, for 
the three siveens were so light and lay so close 
together that the breath which carried away one 
must necessarily take the two others also. How- 
ever, the Caol Riava put his two fingers on the 
two outside leeks, and then blew away that which 
was in the middle. 

*' There's a trick for you, Thady O'Kelly," said 
the Caol Riava. 

'' I declare to my heart," said Thady, " 'tis a 
good one." And he paid him the five pieces of sil- 
ver. 

"- Why, then, that he may get good of your 
money, himself, and his trick," said one of O'Kelly *s 
men, '' if you gave me half what you gave him, I'll 
engage I'd perform the same trick as well as he 
did it." 

'' Oh ! 'tis easy enough to do it," said Thady. 

" Take him at his w^ord," said the Caol Riava. 
'' I'd wager anything he fails, for I never saw a 
boaster succeed in anything he attempted." 

Thady commanded him to proceed, and the 
fellow placed three siveens on his hand, and, laying 
his two fingers on the outside ones, was about to 
blow away that in the centre. However, he had 
scarcely done so much, when his two fingers went 
down through the palm of his hand in such a man- 



The Story-Teller at Fault, 103 

uer that the tips appeared at the back, and would 
have remained so in all likelihood to the day of his 
death, if the Cleasaiye, or juggler, had not rubbed 
an herb upon the place and healed it. 

" Well," said he, "you perceive that everything 
is not easy that looks so. But if you Thady 
O'Kelly, will give me five pieces more, I'll do 
another trick for you as good as the last." 

"You shall have them," answered Thady, "if 
you let us hear what it is to be." 

"Do you see my two ears?" said the juggler, 
thrusting his head forward. 

" What a show they are ! " said Thady. " To 
be sure we do." 

" Well, will you give me five pieces if I stir one 
of my ears without stirring the other?" 

" Indeed I will," said Thady ; " that is impos- 
sible, at all events, for you can only move the 
ears by moving the whole scalp of your head, 
and then both must move together." 

The juggler put up his hand, and, catching hold 
of one ear, stirred it. 

" Upon my word," said Thady ; " you have won 
my five pieces again, and that is a very good 
trick. 

" He's welcome home to us with his tricks," 
said the same man who spoke before, " if he calls 
that a trick. Only I was so hasty and so awk- 
ward awhile ago, I could have done the trick 
well enough, but there's no great art required 
for this at all events." 



104 IJ<^U I'^oiirs luiih IrisJi Authors. 

So saying, he put up his hand and stirred his 
ear, but, to his astonishment and terror, it came 
away between his fingers ! However, the juggler 
rubbed an herb once more to the place, and 
liealed it as before. 

''Well, Thady O'Kelly," said the juggler, "1 
\vill now show you a more curious trick than 
either of those if 3^ou give me the same money." 

" You have my word for it," said Thad3^ 

The juggler then took out of his bag a large 
ball of thread, and, folding the end around his 
finger, flung it slantwise up into the air. Up it 
flew, unrolling as it proceeded, while all gazed 
after it, lost in wonder, until it disappeared 
amongst the clouds. He next took out of his 
bag a fine hare, which he placed on the thread, 
when, to the increasing astonishment of the be- 
holders, the animal ran up the line with as much 
dexterity as if she had been all her life at Astley's 
or Vauxhall. He next took out a greyhound, 
which he placed on the thread in like manner, 
when the animal stretched away after the hare 
with as much zest and security as if both were 
on the Curragh of Kildare en a March morning. 

*' Now," said the Caol Riava, " has any one a 
mind to run up after the dog, and see the course? " 

*' I will," said the man who had spoken twice 
before. 

*' You are always ready," said the juggler, 
" but I fear you are lazy, for you are almost as 
broad as you arc long, and I'm. afraid you'll 



Tlie Story-Teller at Fault. 105 

fall asleep on the way and let the hound eat the 
hare.*' 

^' There is not a more active man in the known 
world than the ver}^ individual who is talking to 
you now," said the fat man. 

" Up with you, then," said the juggler, "but I 
warn you, if you let my hare be killed, I'll cut off 
your head when you come down." 

The fat fellow ran up the thread, and all three 
soon disappeared. After looking up for a long 
time, the Caol Riava said : 

'' I'm afraid the hound is eating the hare, and 
that our fat friend has fallen asleep." 

Saying this, he began to wind the thread, and 
found the case as he had suspected it to be — the 
fat man fast asleep, and the greyhound with the 
last morsel of the hare betvvxen his teeth. He 
immediately drew his sword, and cutoff the young 
man's head at a blow. 

At this Thady O'Kelly stood up, and said he 
did not relish such conduct, and that it was not 
a thing he could ever sanction to see a young man 
murdered in that manner under his roof. 

'' If it grieves you," said the juggler, " I think 
as little of curing him now as I did before ; but I 
must leave him some mark to make him remember 
his rashness." 

So saying, he placed the head upon the shoul- 
ders again, and healed them, but in such a manner 
that the countenance looked the wrong way, after 
which he spoke these lines : 



io6 Half Hours with IrisJi AutJiors. 

What I take at my ease, at my ease I restore ; 
It becomes him much better, I'm sure, than before : 
If any man says I have wronged him thereby. 
Tell that man from me that I give him the lie ; 
For an insolent braggart is odder to see 
Than a fool with his face where his poll ought to be. 

The Caol Riava had scarcely uttered those lines, 
when he and the Story-teller disappeared, nor 
could any person present tell whether they had 
flown into the air, or whether the earth had swal- 
lowed them. The next place the Story-teller 
found himself with his whimsical master was in 
the palace of the King of Leinster, where the cus- 
tomary evening- banquet was on the point of being 
prepared. The Story-teller was grieved and per- 
plexed to hear the king continually asking for his 
favorite Story-teller, while no one present was 
able to give any account of him. 

" Now," said the Caol Riava, turning to him, *' I 
have rendered you invisible in order that 3'ou may 
witness all that is about to take place here, with- 
out being recognized by any of your daily acquaint 
ances." 

So saying, he sat down close to the musicians, 
who were playing in concert at the time. Observ- 
ing the attention which he paid, the chief musician 
said, when they concluded : 

*' Well, my good man, I hope you like our per- 
formance ? " 

*' I'll tell you that," replied the Caol Riava. 
'' Were you ever listening to a cat purring over a 
Dowl of broth ?" 



The Story-Teller at Fault. 107 

" I often heard it," replied the chief musician. 

" Or did you ever hear a parcel of beetles buzz- 
ing- about in the dusk on a summer evening ?" 

'' I did," said the chief musician. 

" Or a bitter-faced old woman scolding in a 
passion ?'' 

*' I did often," said the chief musician, who was 
a married man. 

" Well, then," said the Caol Riava, *' I'd rather 
be listening to any one of them than to your 
music." 

''You insolent ragamuffin," said the chief musi- 
cian, " it well becomes you to express yourself in 
that manner." 

*' You are the last that ought to say so," replied 
the Caol Riava, " for though bad is the best of 
the whole of you, yet, if I were to look out for the 
worst, I should never stop till I lighted on your- 
self." 

At these words, the chief musician arose, and, 
drawing his sword, made a blow at the Caol Riava, 
but, instead of striking him, he wounded one of 
his own party, who returned the blow forthwith, 
and in a little time the whole band of musicians 
were engaged in mortal conflict one with another. 
While all this confusion prevailed, an attendant 
came and awoke the king, who had been taking 
a nap while the music played. 

" What's the matter ?" said the king. 

" I'he harpers that are murthering one another. 
please your majesty." 



lo8 Half Hours zvith Irish Aitthors. 

" icase me!" cried the King of Leiiister, *' it 
does not please me. Tiiey ought to be satisfied 
with murdering all the music in my kingdom, 
without murdering the musicians too. Who 
began it ?" says his majest}'. 

'* A stranger that thought proper to find fault 
with their music," replied the attendant. 

** Let him be hanged," said the king, *'and do 
not disturb me again about him." 

Accordingly, some of the king's guards took 
the Caol Riava, and carried him out to a place 
where they erected a gallows, and hanged him 
without loss of time. However, on returning to 
the palace, they found the Caol Riava within sit- 
ting among the guests, without having the least 
appearances of having been ever hanged in his 
life. 

'''Never welcome you in !" cried the captain of 
the guard. '' Didn't we hang you this minute, and 
what brings you here?" 

''Is it me myself you mean?" said the Caol 
Riava. 

" Who else ?" said the captain. 

" That the hand may turn into a pig's foot with 
you when you think of tying the rope," said the 
Caol Riava, " why should you speak of hanging 
me." 

They went out in alarm, and, to their horror, 
found the king's favorite brother hanging in the 
place of the Caol Riava. One of them went to 
the king, and woke him up. 



TJie Scory-Tcllc]' at Fault, 109 

*' What's the matter now ?" cried th( king, 
yawning and stretching himself. 

*' Please your majest}^ we hanged that vaga- 
bond according to your majesty's orders, and he's 
as well as ever again now in spite of us." He was 
afraid of telling him about his brother. 

** Take him and hang him again, then, and don't 
be disturbing me about such trifles," said the 
King of Leinster, and he went off to sleep again. 

They did as he recommended, and the same 
scene was repeated three times over, and at each 
time some near friend or favorite kinsman of the 
king was hanged instead of the Caol Riava. By 
this time the captain of the guard was fairly at 
his wit's end. 

*' Well," said the Caol Riava, "do you wish to 
hang me any more ?" 

" We'll have no more to say to you," said the 
captain ; ''you may go wherever you like, and the 
sooner the better. We got trouble enough by 
you already. May be 'tis the king himself we'd 
find hanging the next time we tried it." 

*' Since you are growing so reasonable," said the 
Caol Riava, *' you may go out now, and take your 
three friends down again. They will not be so 
much the worse for their experience but they 
can thank you for finding them more comfortable 
quarters ; and 1 give you a parting advice, never 
while you live again to interpose between a critic 
and a poet, a man and his Avife, or a mother and an 
only child." After which he -spoke these lines: 



no Half Hours wit It Irish Authors. 

He who censures a strain which a minstrel composes 
Must lie upon something less grateful than roses ; 
He who takes up a quarrel begun by a poet 
May at bottom have wit, but lacks wisdom to show it ; 
For than him a worse ninny will rarely be found 
Who would peril his nose for a dealer in sound. 

Immediately after he had uttered these verses, he 
disappeared, and the Story-teller found himself in 
company with him on the spot where they had 
first met, and where his wife with the carriage 
and horses were awaiting them, under the care of 
the man to whom the Caol Riava had entrusted 
them. 

" Now," said the latter, *' I will not be torment- 
ing you any longer. There are your carriage, 
and horses, and your dogs, and your mone}^, and 
your lady, and you may take them with you as 
soon as you please, for I have no business in life 
with any of them at all." 

The Story-teller paused for some moments to 
collect his thoughts before he made any reply. 

*' For my carriage, and horses, and hounds," he 
said at length, ** I thank you, but my lady and 
my money you may keep." 

*' No," replied the bococh, *' I have told yon 
that I do not want either; and do not harbor 
any ill-will against your lady on account of what 
she has done, for she could not help it." 

"Not help it!" exclaimed the Story-teller. 
** Not help kicking me into the mouth of my own 
hounds! Not help casting me off, after all my 



The Story-Teller at Fault. in 

kindness to her, in favor of a beggarly old — I 
beg pardon," he said, correcting himself, " I ought 
not to speak in that way, but a woman's ingrati- 
tude will make a man forget his good manners." 

** No offence in life," said the bococh, *'for these 
terms are very just, and apply not to my own real 
form, but to that which I have assumed for the 
purpose of befriending you. I am Aongus of 
Bruff, for whom you obtained many a favor from 
the King of Leinster. This morning I discovered 
by my skill in things. hidden that you were in a 
difficulty, and immediately determined to free you 
from it. As to your lad}^ do not blame her for 
what has passed, for, by the same power which 
enabled me to change the form of your body, I 
changed the affections of her mind. Go home, 
therefore, as man and wife should do ; and now 
you have a story to tell the King of Leinster when 
he calls for it." 

Saying this, he disappeared, and the lad}^ burst- 
ing in tears, begged her husband's forgiveness, 
and assured him that she would sooner die a 
thousand deaths than act in such a manner, if 
some extraordinary influence had not possessed 
her. 

This explanation proving entirely satisfactory 
to the Story-teller, they proceeded homeward 
happily together. Notwithstanding all the speed 
they could make, it was so late when the Story- 
teller arrived at the king's palace that his majes- 
ty had already retired to his sleeping-chamber. 



112 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

When the Story-teller entered, the king enquired 
the cause of his delay. 

'' Please your majesty," said the Story-teller, 
'' there is nothing like the plain truth, and I will 
tell it to you if 3'ou desire it." 

The king commanded him by all means to do 
so. Accordingly, the Story-teller began, and 
gave a detailed account of the adventures of the 
day, his difficulty in trying to invent a story, the 
benevolence of the friendly Draoidhe (or Druid), 
and the ingratitude of his wife, remarkable in 
itself, and still more so in the singular manner in 
which it was explained. When it was ended, the 
king laughed so heartil}^ and was so diverted with 
his narrative, that he commanded him to com- 
mence the whole again, and relate it from begin- 
ning to end, before he went to sleep. The Story- 
teller obeyed, and, when he had concluded, the 
king commanded him never again to go to 
the trouble of inventing a new story, but to tell 
him that one every night, for he never would 
listen to another story again as long as he lived. 




SAMUEL LOVER 



Samuel Lover. 



BARNY O'REIRDON 



CHAPTER I. 

OUTWARD-BOUND. 

"Well, he went further and further than I can tell." — Nurseiy 
Tale. 

AVERY striking characteristic of an Irishman 
is his unwiUingness to be outdone. Some 
have asserted that this arises from vanity, but I 
have ever been unwilling to attribute an unami- 
able motive to my countrymen where abetter may 
be found, and one equally tending to produce a 
similar result, and I consider a deep-seated spirit 
of emulation to originate this peculiarity. Phre- 
nologists might resolve it by supposing the organ 
of love of approbation to predominate in our Irish 
craniums, and it may be so ; but, as I am not in 
the least a metaphysician, and very little of a 
phrenologist, I leave those who choose to settle 
the point in question, quite content with the 
knowledge of the fact with which I started, viz., 
the unwillingness of an Irishman to be outdone. 
This spirit, it is likely, may sometimes lead men 
into ridiculous positions ; but it is equally proba- 



Ii6 Half Hours zviih Irish Authors. 

ble that the desire of surpassing one another has 
given birth to many of the noblest actions and 
some of the most valuable inventions ; let us there- 
fore not fall out with it. 

Now, having vindicated the motive of my coun- 
trymen, I will prove the total abstinence of na- 
tional prejudice in so doing by giving an illustra- 
tion of the ridiculous consequences attendant 
upon this Hibernian peculiarity. 

Barny O'Reirdon was a fisherman of Kinsale, 
and a heartier fellow never hauled a net nor cast 
a line into deep water ; indeed, Barn}^, independ- 
ently of being a merry boy among his compa- 
nions, a lover of good fun and good whiskey, was 
looked up to rather by his brother fishermen as 
an intelligent fellow, and few boats brought more 
fish to market than Barny O'Reirdon's ; his opi- 
nion on certain points in the craft was considered 
law, and, in short, in his own little communit}^, 
Barny was what is commonl}^ called a leading 
man. Now, 5'our leading man is always jealous 
in an inverse ratio to the sphere of his influence, 
and the leader of a nation is less incensed at a 
rival's triumph than the great man of a village. 
If we pursue this descending scale, what a des- 
perately jealous person the oracle of oyster- 
dredges and cockle-women must be ! Such was 
Barny O'Reirdon. 

Seated one night at a public-house, the common 
resort of Barny and other marine curiosities, our 
hero got entangled in debate with what he called 



Barny O' Reirdon. 117 

a strange sail ; that is to say, a man he had never 
met before, and whom he was inclined to treat 
rather mag-isterially upon nautical subjects ; at 
the same time, the stranger was equally inclined 
to assume the high hand over him, till at last the 
new-comer made a regular outbreak by exclaim- 
ing, " Ah ! tare-and-ouns, lave afFyour balderdash, 
Mr. O'Reirdon ; by the powdhers o* war it's 
enough, so it is, to make a dog bate his father, to 
hear you goin' an as if you war Curlumberus or 
Sir Crustyphiz Wran, when every one knows the 
divil a farthur you iver war nor ketchen crabs or 
drudgen oysters." 

*' Who towld you that, my Watherford Won- 
dher? " rejoined Barny. '' What the dickens do 
you know about sayfarin' farther nor fishin' for 
sprats in a bowl wid your grandmother ? " 

"■ Oh ! baithershin," says the stranger. 

*' And who made you so bowld with my name ?" 
demanded O'Reirdon. 

'' No matther for that," said the stranger; '' but 
if you'd like for to know, shure it's your own 
cousin Molly MulHns knows me well, and may be 
I don't know you and yours as well as the moth- 
er that bore you, aye, in troth ; and sure I know 
the very thoughts o' you as well as if I was inside 
o' you, Barny O'Reirdon." 

** By my sowl thin, 5^ou know betther thoughts 
than your own, Mr. Whipper-snapper, if that's 
the name you go by." 

" No, it's not the name I go by ; I've as good a 



ii8 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 

name as your own, Mr. O'Reirdon, for want of a 
betther, and that's O'SuUivan." 

'' Throth there's more than there's good o' 
them," said Barny. 

" Good or bad, I'm a cousin o' your own twice 
removed by the mother's side." 

"■ And is it the Widda O'Sullivan's boy you'd 
be that left this come Candlemas four years? " 

'* The same." 

"■ Throth, thin, you might know better manners 
to your eldhers, though I'm glad to see you, any- 
how, agin ; but a little thravellin' puts us beyant 
ourselves sometimes," said Barny rather con- 
temptuously. 

** Throth I nivir bragged out o' myself 3^it, and 
it's what I say that a man that's only fishin' aff 
the land all his life has no business to compare in 
the regard o' thracthericks wdd a man that has 
sailed to FingaL" 

This silenced any further argument on Barny 's 
part. Where Fingal lay was all Greek to him ; 
but, unwilling to admit his ignorance, he covered 
his retreat with the usual address of his country- 
men, and turned the bitterness of debate into the 
cordial flow of congratulation at seeing his cousin 
again. 

The liquor was frequently circulated, and the 
conversation began to take a different turn, in 
order to lead from that which had very nearly 
ended in a quarrel between O'Reirdon and his re- 
lation. The state of the crops, county cess, road 



Barny O^Reirdon. 119 

jobs, etc., became topics, and various strictures as 
to the utility of the latter were indulged in, while 
the merits of the neighboring farmers were can- 
vassed. 

" Why, thin," said one, '' that field o' whate o* 
Michael Coghlan is the finest field o* whate mor- 
tial eyes was ever set upon — divil the likes iv it 
myself ever seen far or near." 

" Throth, thin, sure enough," said another, "• it 
promises to be a fine crap anyhow, and myself 
can't help thinkin' it quare that Mikee Coghlan, 
that's a plain-spoken, quite (quiet) man, and sim- 
ple like, should have finer craps than Pether Kelly 
o' the big farm beyant, that knows all about the 
great saycrets o' the airth, and is knowledgable 
to a degree, and has all the hard words that ivir 
was coined, at his fingers' ends." 

** Faith, he has a power o' blasthogue about him, 
sure enough," said the former speaker, *' if that 
could do him any good, but he isn't fit to hould 
a candle to Michael Coghlan in the regard o' 
farm in'." 

" Why, blur-and-agers," rejoined the upholder 
of science, "sure he met the Scotch steward that 
the lord beyant has, one day, that I hear is a 
wondherful edicated man, and was brought over 
here to show us all a patthern ; well, Pether 
Kelly met him one day, and, by gor, he discoorsed 
him to a degree that the Scotch chap hadn't a 
word left in his jaw." 

** Well, and what was he the better o' hav- 



130 Half Hours ivitJi Irish AutJiors. 

ing- more prate than a Scotchman?" asked the 
other. 

'' Why,' answered Kelly's friend, " 1 think it 
stands to rayson that the man that done out the 
Scotch steward ought to know somethin' more 
about farmin* than Mickee Coghlan." 

" Augh ! don't talk to me about knowing," 
said the other rather contemptuously. " Sure I 
gev in to you that he has a power o' prate, and 
the gift o' the gab, and all to that. I own to you 
that he has the-o-ry^iXi^ cJie-mis-thery^ but he hasn't 
the craps. Now, the man that has the craps is 
the man for my money. 

"■ You're right, my boy," said O'Reirdon, with 
an approving thump of his brawn}- fist upon the 
table, " it's a little talk goes far — doin is the thing." 

" Ah, yiz may run down larnin' if yiz like," said 
the undismayed stickler for theory versus practice, 
'* but larnin' is a fine thing, and sure where Avould 
the world be at all only for it; sure where would 
the staymers (steamboat) be, only for larnin'?" 

''Well," said O'Reirdon, ''and the divil may 
care if we never seen them ; I'd rather depind an 
wind and canvas any day than the likes o' them ! 
What are they good for, but to turn good sailors 
into kitchen-maids, bilin' a big pot o' wather and 
oilin' their lire-irons, and throwin' coals an the 
fire? Augh! thim staymers is a disgrace to the 
say ; they're for all the world like old fogies, 
smokin' from mornin' till niirht and doin' no 



good.' 



Barny OReirdon. 12 1 

** Do you call it doin' no good to go fasther nor 
ships iver wint before?'* 

'' Pooh ; sure Solomon, queen o* Sheba, said 
there was time enough for all things." 

** Thrue for you," said O'Sullivan, " ^fair and 
aisy goes far in a day, is a good ould sayin'." 

'' Well, may be you'll own to the improvement 
they re makin' in the harbor o' Howth beyant, 
in Dublin, is some good." 

" We'll see whether it'll be an improvement 
first," said the obdurate O'Reirdon. 

'* Why, man alive, sure you'll own it's the 
greatest o' good it is, taken' up the big rocks out 
o' the bottom o' the harbor." 

'' Well, an' where's the wondher o' that ? Sure 
we done the same here." 

'' Oh ! yis, but it was whin the tide was out and 
the rocks was bare ; but up at Howth, they cut 
away the big rocks from undher the say intirely." 

^' Oh ! be aisy ; why, how could they do that?" 

*' Ay, there's the matther, that's what larnin' 
can do ; and wondherful it is intirely ! and the 
way it is, is this, as I hear it, for I never seen it, 
but heerd it described by the lord to some gintle- 
min and ladies one da}^ in his garden where I was 
helpin' the gardener to land some salary (celery). 
You see the ingineer goes down undher the 
wather intirely, and can stay there as long as he 
plazes." 

*' Whoo! and what o' that? Sure I heerd the 
long sailor say that come from the Ay stern 



122 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 

Ingees that the iiigineers there can a'most live 
under wather, and goes down looking for dia- 
monds, and has a sledge-hammer in their hand, 
brakin' the diamonds when thej^'re too big to take 
them up whole, all as one as men brakin' stones 
an the road." 

" Well, I don't want to go beyant that ; but the 
way the lord's ingineer goes down is he has a 
little bell wid him, and, \vhile he has that little 
bell to ring, hurt nor harm can't come to him." 

'' Arrah be aisy." 

*' Divil a lie in it." 

" May be it's a blissed bell," said O'Reirdon, 
crossing himself." 

'' No, it is not a blissed bell." 

" Why thin, now, do you think me sitch a born 
nathral as to give in to that ? As if the ringin' iv 
the bell, barrin it was a blissed bell, could do the 
like. I tell you it's unpossible." 

"Ah ! nothin's unpossible to God." 

'' Sure I w^asn't denyin' that; but I say the bell 
is unpossible." 

''Why," said O'Sullivan, "you see he*s not 
altogether complete in the demonstheration o* the 
mashine; it is not by the ringin' o' the bell it is 
done, but — " 

"But what?" broke in O'Reirdon impatiently. 

* There is a relic in the possession of the MacNamara family, in the county 
Clare, called the "blessed bell of the MacNamaras," sometimes used to 
swear upon in cases of extreme urgency, in preference to the Testament ; for 
a violation of truth, "wljen sworn upon the blessed bell, is looked upon by the 
peasantry as a sacrilege, placing the offender beyond the pale of salvation. 



Barny O' Reivdoii. 123 

** Do you mane for to saj^ there is a bell in it at all 
at all?" 

^' Yes, I do," said O'Sullivan. 

" I towld 3^ou so," said the promulgator of the 
story. 

"• Ay," said O'Sullivan, " but it is not by the 
ringin' iv the bell it is done." 

'* Well, how is it done, then?" said the other, 
with a half offended, half supercilious air. 

'^ It is done," said O'Sullivan, as he returned 
the look Avith interest — *'it is done entirely by 
jommethry.'' 

*' Oh ! I understan' it now," said O'Rcirdon, 
with an inimitable affectation of comprehension in 
the '' Oh !" — " but to talk of the ringin' iv a bell doin' 
the like is beyant the beyants intirely, barrin', as 
I said before, it was a blissed bell, glory be to 
God!" 

*' And so you tell me, sir, it is jommethry," said 
the twice discomfited man of science. 

'' Yis, sir," said O'Sullivan with an air of 
triumph, which rose in proportion as he carried 
the listeners along with him — "jommethry." 

" Well, have it your own way. There's them 
that won't hear ray son sometimes, nor have belief 
in larnin' ; and you may say it's jommethry if you 
plaze ; but I heerd them that knows betther than 
iver you knew, say — " 

* " Whisht, whisht ! and bad cess to you both," 
said O'Reirdon ; '' what the dickens are yiz goin' 
to fight about now, and sitch good liquor before 



124 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

y'xz ? Hillo ! there, Mrs. Quigley, bring uz another 
quart i' jou plaze ; ay, that's the chat, another 
quart. Augh ! yiz may talk till yo're black in the 
face about your invintions, and your staymers, and 
bell ringin', and gash, and railroads ; but here's 
Ions: life and success to the man that i'nvinted the 
impairil (imperial) quarf^ ; that was the rail 
beautiful invintion." And he took a long pull at 
the replenished vessel, which strongly indicated 
that the increase of its dimensions Avas a very 
agreeable measure to such as Barny. 

After the introduction of this and other quarts, 
it would not be an easy matter to pursue the con- 
versation that followed. Let us therefore trans- 
fer our story to the succeeding morning, when 
Barny O'Reirdon strolled forth from his cottage, 
rather later than usual, with his eyes bearing eye- 
witness to the carouse of the preceding night. 
He had not a headache, however; whether it 
was that Barny was too experienced a campaigner 
under the banners of Bacchus, or that Mrs. 
Quigley's boast was a just one, namely, "■ that, of 
all the drink in her house, there was't a headache 
in a hogshead of it," is hard to determine, but I 
rather incline to the strength of Barny 's head. 

The above-quoted declaration of Mrs. Quigley 
is the favorite inducement held out by every 



* Until the assimilation of currency, weights, and measures between Eng- 
land and Ireland, the Irish quart was a much smaller measure than the Eng- 
lish. This part of the assimilation pleased Pat exceedingly, and he has na 
anxiety tb have that repealed. 



Barny O' Reirdon, 125 

boon companion in Ireland at the head of his own 
table. " Don't be afraid of it, my bo3^s, it's the 
right sort. There's not a headache in a hogs- 
head of it." 

This sentiment has been very seductively 
rendered b}^ More, with the most perfect uncon- 
sciousness on his part of the likeness he was insti- 
tuting. Who does not remember — 

" Friend of my soul, this goblet sip, 

'Twill chase the pensive tear ; 
'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip 

But, oh ! 'tis more sincere ; 
Like her delusive beam, 

'Twill steal away the mind ; ' 
But, like aflfection's dream. 

It leaves no sting behind." 

Is not this very elegantly saying '' there's not a 
headache in a hogshead of it" ? But I am forget- 
ting my story all this time. 

Barny sauntered about in the sun, at which he 
often looked up, under the shelter of compressed 
bushy brows, and long-lashed eyelids, and a 
shadowing hand across his forehead, to see '' what 
o' day " it was ; and, from the frequency of this 
action, it was evident the day was hanging heavily 
with Barny. He retired at last to a sunny nook 
in a neighboring field, and, stretching himself at 
full length, basked in the sun, and began "to 
chew the cud of sweet and bitter thought." He 
first reflected on his own undoubted weight in his 
little community, but still he could not get over 



126 Half Hours ivith Irish Author s. 

the annoyance of the preceding- night, arising 
from his being silenced by O'Sullivan ; "a chap," 
as he said himself, " that lift the place four years 
agon a brat iv a bo}^ and to think iv his comin' 
back and outdoin' his elders, that saw him runnin' 
about the place a gassoon that one could tache a 
few months before " ; 'twas too bad. Barny saw 
his reputation was in a ticklish position, and began 
to consider how his disgrace could be retrieved. 
The very name of Fingal was hateful to him ; 
it was a plague spot on his peace that festered 
there incurably. He first thought of leaving Kin- 
sale altogether; but flight implied so much of 
defeat that he did not long indulge in that notion. 
No, he zvould stay, ''in spite of all the O'SuUi- 
vans, kith and kin, breed, seed, and generation." 
But, at the same time, he knew he should never 
hear the end of that hateful place, Fingal ; and, if 
Barny had had the power, he would have enacted 
a penal statute making it death to name the 
accursed spot, ivherever it was; but, not being 
gifted with such legislative authority, he felt Kin- 
sale was no place for him, if he would not submit 
to be flouted every hour out of the four-and- 
twenty by man, woman, and child that w^ished 
to annoy him. What was to be done ? He was 
in the perplexing situation, to use his own words, 
'' of the cat in the thripe shop " — he didn't know 
which way to choose. At last, after turning himself 
over in the sun several times, a new idea struck 
him. Couldn't he go to Fingal himself? And then 



Barny O' Reirdon. 127 

he'd be equal to that upstart O'Sullivan. No 
sooner was the thought engendered than Barny 
sprang to his feet a new man ; his eye bright- 
ened, his step became once more elastic, he 
walked erect, and felt himself to be all over Barny 
O'Reirdon once more — " Richard was himself 
again." 

But where was Fingal ? — there was the rub. 
That was a profound mystery to Barny, which, 
until discovered, must hold him in the vile bond- 
age of inferiority. The plain-dealing reader 
would say, ''Couldn't he ask?" No, no; that 
Avould never do for Barny ; that would be an 
open admission of ignorance his soul was above ; 
and, consequently, Barny set his brains to v/ork to 
devise measures of coming at the hidden know- 
ledge by some circuitous route that would not 
betray the end he was v/orking for. To this pur- 
pose, fifty stratagems were raised and demolished 
in half as many minutes in the fertile brain of 
Barny as he strided along the shore, and, as he 
was working hard at the fifty-first, it was knocked 
all to pieces by his jostling against some one 
whom he never perceived he was approaching, so 
immersed was he in his speculations ; and, on look- 
ing up, who should it prove to be but his friend, 
'' the long sailor from the Aystern Injees." This 
was quite a godsend to Barny, and much beyond 
what he could have hoped for. Of all men under 
the sun, the long sailor was the man in a million 
for Barny's net at that minute, and accordingly 



128 Half Hours zuith Irish Authors, 

he made a haul of him, and thought it the greatest 
catch he ever made in his life. 

Barny and the long sailor were in close com- 
panionship for the remainder of the day, which 
was closed, as the preceding one, in a carouse ; 
but, on this occasion, there was only a duet per- 
formance in honor of the jolly god, and the treat 
was at Barny's expense. What the nature of 
their conversation during the period was I will 
not dilate on, but keep it as profound a secret as 
Barny himself did, and content myself with saying 
that Barny looked a much happier man the next 
day. Instead of wearing his hat slouched, and 
casting his eyes on the ground, he walked about 
with his usual unconcern, and gave his nod, the 
passing word of " civilittide,''* to every friend he 
met ; he rolled his quid of tobacco about in his jaw 
with an air of superior enjoyment, and, if disturbed 
in his narcotic amusement by a question, he took 
his own time to eject " the leperous distilment " 
before he answered the querist, a happy com- 
posure that bespoke a man quite at ease with 
himself. It was in this agreeable spirit that 
Barny bent his course to the house of Peter 
Kelly, the owner of the " big farm beyant " before 
alluded to, in order to put in practice a plan he 
had formed for the fulfilment of his determination 
of rivalling O'SuUivan. 

He thought it probable that Peter Kelly, being 
one of the *' snuggest men in the neighborhood, 
would be a likely person to join him in a spec," 



Barny O'Reirdon. 129 

as he called it (a favorite abbreviation of his for 
the word speculation), and accordingl}^ when he 
reached the " big farm house," he accosted the 
owner with his usual ** Good save you !" '' God 
save you kindly, Barny," returned Peter Kelly. 
*' An' what is it brings you here, Barny," asked 
Peter, '' this fine day, instead o' being out in the 
boat?" — " Oh ! Pll be out in the boat soon enough* 
and it's far enough, too, Fll be in her ; an' indeed 
it's partly that same is bringin' me here to your- 
self." 

'* Why, do you want me to go along wid you, 
Barny ?" 

"Troth an' I don't, Mr. Kelly. You're a 
knowledgable man an land, but Pm afeard it's a 
bad bargain you'd be at say." 

'* And what wor you talking about me and your 
boat for?" 

" Why, you see, sir, it was in the regard of a 
little bit o' business, an', if you'd come wid me and 
take a turn in the praty-field, Pll be behouldin' to 
you, and may be you'll hear somethin' that won't 
be displazin' to you." 

*' An' welkim, Barny," said Peter Kelly. 

When Barny and Peter were in the '* praty- 
field," Barny opened the trenches (I don't mean 
the potato trenches), but, in military parlance, he 
opened the trenches, and laid siege to Peter Kelly, 
setting forth the extensive profits that had been 
realized at various " specs " that had been made 
by his neighbors in exporting potatoes. " And 



130 Half Hours zviih Irish Authors. 

sure," said Barny, ** why shouldn't you do the 
same, and they are ready to your hand? As much 
as to say, Why dont you profit by me, Peter Kelly ? 
And the boat is below there in the harbor, and 
I'll say this much, the devil a betther boat is 
betune this and herself." 

" Indeed, I b'lieve so, Barn}^" said Peter, " for, 
considhering where we stand at this present, 
there's no boat at all at all betune us." And Peter 
laughed with infinite pleasure at his own hit. 

*' Oh ! well, you know what I mane, any how ; 
an', as I said before, the boat is a darlint boat, and 
as for him that commands her — I b'lieve I need 
say nothin' about that." And Barny gave a toss of 
his head and a sweep of his open hand, more than 
doubling the laudatory nature of his comment on 
himself. 

But, as the Irish saying is, ''to make a long 
story short," Barny prevailed on Peter Kelly to 
make an export; but in the nature of the venture 
they did not agree. Barny had proposed pota- 
toes ; Peter said there were enough of them 
already where he was going; and Barny rejoined 
that " praties were so good in themselves there 
never could be too much o' thim anywhere." 
But Peter, being a knowledgable man, and up to 
.all "saycretso' the airth, and understanding the 
the-o-ry and the che-mis-thery," overruled Barny's 
proposition, and determined upon a cargo of seal- 
peens (which name they gave to pickled mackerel) 
as a preferable merchandise, quite forgetting 



Barny O'Reirdon. 131 

that Dublin Bay herrings were a much better 
and as cheap a commodity, at the command of the 
Fingalians. But in many similar mistakes the 
ingenious Mr. Kelly has been paralleled by other 
speculators. But that is neither here nor there, 
and it was all one to Barny whether his boat was 
freighted with potatoes or scalpeeits, so long as he 
had the honor and glory of becoming a navigator, 
and -being as good as O'Sullivan. 

Accordingly the boat was laden and all got in 
readiness for putting to sea, and nothing was now 
wanting but Barny 's orders to haul up the gaff 
and shake out the jib of his hooker. 

But this order Barny refrained to give, and, for 
the first time in his life, exhibited a disinclination 
to leave the shore. One of his fellow-boatmen at 
last said to him : '* Why, thin, Barny O'Reirdon, 
what the divil is come over you, at all at all? 
What's the maynin' of your loitherin' about here, 
and the boat ready, and a lovely fine breeze aff o' 
the land?" 

'' Oh ! never you mind ; I b'lieve I know my 
own business anyhow, an' it's hard, so it is, if a 
man can't ordher his own boat to sail when he 
plazes." 

"■ Oh ! I was only thinking it quare — and a pity 
more betoken, as I said before, to lose the beauti- 
ful breeze, and — " 

"Well, just keep your thoughts to yourself, i' 
you plaze, and stay in the boat as I bid you, and 
don't be out of her on your apperl, by no manner 



132 Half Hours zuitJi Irish Authors, 

Q manes, for one minit, for you see I don't know 
when it may be plazin' to me to go aboord an* set 
sail." 

''Well, all I can say is I never seen you afeard 
to go to say before." 

'' Who says I'm afeard ? " said O'Reirdon ; 
"you'd betther not say that agin, or in troth I'll 
give you a leatherin' that won't be for the good o' 
your health — troth, for three straws this minit I'd 
lave you that your own mother wouldn't know 
you with the lickin' I'd give you ; but I scorn 
your dirty insinuation ; no man ever seen Barny 
O'Reirdon afeard yet, anyhow. Howld your 
prate, I tell you, and look up to your betthers. 
What do you know iv navigation? May be you 
think it's as aisy for to sail on a voyage as to go 
start a-fishin'." And Barny turned on his heel, 
and left the shore. 

The next day passed without the hooker sail- 
ing, and Barny gave a most sufficient reason for 
the delay, by declaring that he had a warnin' 
givin' him in a dhrame (Glory be to God !), and 
that it was given to him to understand (under 
Heaven) that it wouldn't be lucky that day. 

Well, the next day was Friday, and Barny of 
course would not sail any more than any other 
sailor who could help it on this unpropitious day. 
On Saturday, however, he came running in a 
great hurry down to the shore, and, jumped 
aboard, he gave orders to make all sail, and, tak- 
ing the helm of the hooker, he turned her head 



Barny O' Reirdon. 133 

to the sea, and soon the boat was cleaving the 
blue waters with a velocity seldom witnessed in 
so small a craft, and scarcely conceivable to those 
who have not seen the speed of a Kinsale hooker. 

** Why, thin, you tuk the notion mighty sud- 
dint, Barny," said the fisherman next in authority 
to O'Reirdon, as soon as the bustle of getting the 
boat under way had subsided. 

" Well, I hope it's plazin' to you at last," said 
Barny ; " troth, one 'ud think you were never at 
say before, you wor in such a hurry to be off; as 
new-fangled a'most as the child with a play-toy." 

^* Well," said the other of Barny' s companions, 
for there were but two with him in the boat, " I 
was thinkin' myself, as well as Jemm}'-, that we 
lost two fine days for nothin', and we'd be there 
a'most, may be, now, if we sailed three days agon." 

'■'■ Don't b'lieve it," said Barny emphatically. 
'' Now, don't you know yourself that there is 
some days that the fish won't come near the lines 
at all, and that we might as well be castin' our 
nets on the dhry land as in the say, for all we'll 
catch if we start on an unlooky day ? And sure I 
towld you I was waitin' only till I had it given to 
me to undherstan' that it was looky to sail, and I 
go bail we'll be there sooner than if we started 
three days agon, for, if you don't start with good 
look before you, faix may be it's never at all to 
the end o* your trip you'll come." 

'' Well, there's no use in talkin' aboot it now, 
anyhow ; but when do vou expec' to be there ?" 



134 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

** Why, you see we must wait antil I can tell 
how the wind is like to howld on, before I can 
make up my mind to that." 

" But you're sure now, Barny, that you're up to 
the coorse you have to run ?" 

" See now, lave me alone and don't be cross 
crass-questionin' me — tare-an-ouns, do you think 
me sitch a bladdherang as for to go to shuperin- 
scribe a thing I wasn't aiquil to ?" 

" No ; I was only goin' to ax you what coorse 
you w^or goin' to steer." 

" You'll find out soon enough when we get 
there, and so I bid you agin' lay me alone — just 
keep 3^our toe in your pump. Shure I'm here at 
the helm, and a weight on my mind, and it's fit- 
ther for you, Jim, to mind your ow^n business, and 
lay me to mind mine ; away wid you there, and 
be handy ; haul taut that foresheet there, we 
must run close on the wind ; be handy, bo3'S, 
make everything dhraw." 

These orders were obeyed, and the hooker soon 
passed to windward of a ship that left the harbor 
before her, but could not hold on a wind with the 
same tenacity as the hooker, whose qualities in 
this particular render it peculiarly suitable for the 
purposes to which it is applied, namely, pilot and 
fishing boats. 

We have said a ship left the harbor before the 
hooker had set sail, and it is now fitting to inform 
the reader that Barny had contrived, in the course 
of his last meeting with the '' long sailor," to as- 



Barny O' Reirdon. 135 

certain that this ship, then lying in the harbor, 
was going to the very place Barny wanted to 
reach. Barny 's plan of action was decided upon 
in a moment; he had now nothing to do but to 
watch the sailing of the ship, and follow in her 
course. Here was at once a new mode of navi- 
gation discovered. 

The stars, twinkling in mysterious brightness 
through the silent gloom of night, were the first 
encouraging, because visible, guides to the adven- 
turous mariners of antiquity. Since then, the 
sailor, encouraged by a bolder science, relies on 
the tmseeji agency of nature, depending on the 
fidelity of an atom of iron to the mystic law that 
claims its homage in the north. This is one re- 
finement of science upon another. But the beau- 
tiful simplicity of Barny O'Reirdon's philosophy 
cannot be too much admired, to follow the ship 
that is going to the same place. Is not this navi- 
gation made easy? 

But Barny, like many a great man before him, 
seemed not to be aware of how much credit he 
was entitled to for his invention, for he did not 
divulge to his companions the originality of his 
proceeding ; he wished them to believe he was 
only proceeding in the commonplace manner, and 
had no ambition to be distinguished as the happy 
projector of so simple a practice. 

For this purpose, he went to windward of the 
ship, and then fell off again, allowing her to pass 
him, as he did not wish even those on board the 



136 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 

ship to suppose he was following- in their wake ; 
for Barny like all people that are full of one 
scheme, and fancy everybody is watching them, 
dreaded lest any one should fathom his motives. 
All that day, Barny held on the same course as his 
leader, keeping at a respectful distance, however, 
"■ for fear 'twould look like dodging her," as he 
said to himself; but, as night closed in, so closed 
in Barny with the ship, and kept a sharp lookout 
that she would not give him the shp. The next 
morning dawned, and found the hooker and ship 
companions still; and thus matters proceeded for 
four days, during the entire of which time they 
had not seen land since their first losing sight of 
it, although the weather was clear. 

** By my sowl," thought Barny, *' the channel 
must be mighty wide in these parts, and for the 
last day or so we've been goin' purty free with a 
flowing sheet, and I wondher we aren't closin' in 
wid the shore by this time ; or may be it's farther 
off than I thought it was." His companions, too, 
began to question Barny on the subject, but to 
their queries he presented an impenetrable front 
of composure, and said, *^ It was always the best 
plan to keep a good bowld offin'." In two days 
more, however, the weather began to be sensibly 
warmer, and Barny and his companions remarked 
that it was *' goin' to be the finest say son — God 
bless it ! — that ever kem out o' the skies for many a 
long year, and may be it's the whate would not be 
beautiful, and a great dale of it." It was at the 



Barny O' Reirdon, 137 

end of a week that the ship which Barny had 
hitherto kept ahead of him showed symptoms of 
bearing down upon him, as he thought ; and, sure 
enough, she did, and Barny began to conjecture 
what the deuce the ship could want with him, 
and commenced inventing answers to the ques- 
tions he thought it possible might be put to him 
in case the ship spoke him. He was soon put out 
of suspense by being hailed and ordered to run 
under her lee, and the captain, looking over the 
quarter, asked Barny where he was going. 

** Faith, then, I'm goin' an my business,' said 
Barny. 

'' But where?" said the captain. 

" Why, sure, an it's no matther where a poor 
man like me id be goin'," said Barny. 

^* Only I'm curious to know what the deuce 
you've been following my ship for the last week ?" 

'' Follyin' your ship ! Why, thin, blur-an-a^ers, 
do you think it's follyin' yiz I am ?" 

*' It's very like it," said the captain. 

" Why, did two people niver thravel the rame 
road before?" 

*' I don't say they didn't ; but there's a great 
difference between a ship of seven hundred tons 
and a hooker." 

'' Oh ! as for that matther," said Barny, "• the 
same highroad sarves a coach and four, and a 
lowback car; the thravellin' tinker an* horse- 
back." 

" That's very true," said the captain, "■ but the 



138 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 

cases are not the same, Paddy, and I can't con- 
ceive what the devil brings j^?^ here." 

" And who ax'd you to consayve anything about 
it?" asked Barny somewhat sturdily. 

" D — n me if I can imagine what j^ou're about, 
my fine fellow," said the captain ; " and my own 
notion is that you don't know V\diere the d — 1 
3^ou're going yourself." 

'' O baithcrshin !'' said Barny, with a laugh of 
derision. 

"Why, then, do you object to tell?" said the 
captain. 

" Arrah sure, captain, an' don't you know that 
sometimes vessels is bound to sail under saycret 
ordhersf said Barny, endeavoring to foil the 
question by badinage. 

There was a universal laugh from the deck of 
the ship, at the idea of a fishing-boat sailing under 
secret orders ; for, by this time, the whole broad- 
side of the vessel was crowded with grinning 
mouths and wondering eyes at Barny and his boat. 

"• Oh ! it's a thrifie makes fools laugh," said 
Barny. 

" Take care, my fine fellow, that 3''Ou don't be 
laughing at the wrong side of your mouth before 
long, for I've a notion that you're cursedly in the 
wrong box, as cunning a fellow as you think your- 
self. D — n your stupid head, can't 3^ou tell what 
brings you here ?" 

" Why, thin, by gor, one id think the whole say 
belonged to you, you're so mighty bowld in axin 



Barny O' Reirdon. 139 

questions an it. Why, tare-an-ouns, sure I've as 
much right to be here as you, though I haven't 
as big a ship nor as fine a coat ; but may be I can 
take as good a sailin' out o' the one, and has as 
bowld a heart under th' other." 

'' Very well," said the captain, '* I see there's no 
use in talking to you, so go to the d — 1 your own 
wa}^" And away bore the ship, leaving Barny 
in indignation and his companions in wonder. 

''An' why wouldn't you tell him ?" said they to 
Barny. 

"• Why, don't you see," said Barny, whose 
object was now to bHnd them — '' don't you see, 
how do I know but may be he might be goin' to 
the same place himself, and may be he has a cargo 
of scalpcens as well as uz, and wants to get before 
us there ?" 

'' True for you, Barny," said they. " By dad, 
you're right." And their enquiries being satisfied, 
the day passed, as former ones had done, in pursu- 
ing the course of the ship. 

In four days more, however, the provisions in 
the hooker began to fail, and they were obliged to 
have recourse to the scalpeens for sustenance, and 
Barny then got seriously uneasy at the length of 
the voyage and the likely greater length, for any 
thing he could see to the contrary ; and, urged at 
last by his own alarms and those of his compa- 
nions, he was enabled, as the wind was light, to 
gain on the ship, and, when he found himself along- 
side, he demanded a parley with the captain. 



140 Half Hottrs zvitJi Irish Authors, 

The captain, on hearing that the " hardy hooker," 
as she got christened, was under his lee, came on 
deck, and, as soon as he appeared, Barny cried 
out — 

" Why, thin, blur-an-agers, captain dear, do you 
expec' to be there soon ?" 

" Where ?" said the captain. 

** Oh ! you know yourself," said Barny. 

*' It's well for me I do," said the captain. 

" Thrue for you, indeed, 3'our honor," said 
Barny, in his most insinuating tone; ''but whin 
will you be at the ind o' 3^our voyage, captain 
jewel?" 

" I dare say in about three months," said the 
captain. 

'' O Holy Mother!" ejaculated Barny; ''three 
months ! — arrah, it's jokein' you are, captain dear, 
and only want to freken me." 

" HoAV should I frighten you ?" asked the 
captain. 

" Why, thin, your honor, to tell God's truth, 
I heard you were goin' tJiere, an', as I wanted to 
go there too, I thought I couldn't do better nor 
to folly a knowledgable gintleman like yourself, 
and save myself the throuble iv findin' it out." 

"And where do you think I am going?" said 
the captain. 

" Why, thin," said Barny, " isn't it to Fingal?' 

" No," said the captain ; " it's to Bengal.'' 

"Oh! Gog's blakey!" said Barny, " what'll I 
do now at all at all?" 



Bar?iy O'Reirdon, 141 



CHAPTER II. 

HOMEWARD-BOUND. 

" 'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody good." — 0!d Saying. 

. The captain ordered Barny on deck, as he 
wished to have some conversation with him 
on what he very naturally considered a most 
extraordinary adventure. Heaven help the cap- 
tain ! he knew little of Irishmen, or he would not 
have been so astonished. Barny made his appear- 
ance. Puzzling question, and more puzzUng 
answer, followed in quick succession between the 
commander and Barny, who, in the midst of his 
dilemma, stamped about, thumped his head, 
squeezed his caubeen into all manner of shapes, 
and vented his despair anathematically : 

'* Oh ! my heavy hathred to you, you tarnal 
thief iv a long sailor ! It's a purty scrape yiv led 
me into. By gor, I thought it was Fingal he said, 
and now I hear it is BingaL Oh ! the divil sweep 
you for navigation, why did I meddle or make 
wid you at all at all ? And my curse light on you, 
Terry O'Sullivan, why did I iver come across 
you, you onlooky vagabone, to put sitch thoughts 
in my head ? And so its Bingal, and not Fingal, 
you're goin' to, captain?" 

** Yes, indeed, Paddy." 

" An' might I be so bowld to ax, captain, is 
Bingal much farther nor Fingal?" 



142 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

" A trifle or so, Paddy." 

" Och, thin, millia murther, weirasthru, how 'ill 
I iver get there at all at all?" roared out poor 
Barny. 

'' By turning about, and getting back the road 
you've come, as fast as you can." 

*' Is it back ? O Queen iv Heaven ! an how 
will I iver get back?" said the bewildered Barny. 

'' Then j^ou don't know your course, it ap- 
pears ?" 

'^ Oh ! faix I know it, iligant, as long as your 
honor was before me." 

'' But you don't know your course back?' 

" Why, indeed, not to say rightly all out, your 
honor." 

" Can't you steer ?" said the captain. 

*' The devil a betther hand at the tiller in all 
Kinsale," said Barny, with his usual brag. 

'' Well, so far so good," said the captain. " And 
you know the points of the compass — you have a 
compass, I suppose ?" 

** A compass ! by my sowl an it's not let alone a 
compass, but a /^air a compasses I have, that my 
brother the carpinthir left me for a keepsake whin 
he wint abroad ; but, indeed, as for the points o' 
thim, I can't say much, for the childer spy It thim 
intirel}^, rootin' holes in the flure." 

"What the plague are you talking about?" 
asked the captain. 

''Wasn't your honor discoorsin' me about the 
points o' the compasses?" 



Barny C Reh'don. 143 

'' Confound your thick head !" said the captain. 
*' Why, what an ignoramus you must be, not to 
know what a compass is, and you at sea all your 
life? Do you even know the cardinal points?" 

" The cardinals ! faix, an it's a great respect I 
have for them, your honor. Sure, ar'n't they be- 
longin' to the pope ? " 

" Confound you, you blockhead ! " roared the 
captain, in a rage ; " 'twould take the patience of 
the pope and the cardinals, and the cardinal vir- 
tues into the bargain, to keep one's temper with 
you. Do you know the four points of the wind ?" 

'' By my sovvl, I do, and more." 

"Well, never mind more, but let us stick to 
four. You're sure you know the four points of 
the wind ?" 

*' By dad, it would be a quare thing if a say- 
farin' man didn't know somethin' about the wind, 
anyhow. Why, captain, dear, you must take me 
for a nath'ral intirely, to suspect me o' the like o' 
not knowin' all about the wind. By gor, I know 
as much o' the wind a'most as a pig." 

" Indeed, I believe so," laughed out the cap- 
tain. 

** Oh ! you may laugh if you plaze, and I see by 
the same that you don't know about the pig, with 
all your edication, captain." 

" Well, what about the pig ?" 

" Why, sir, did you never hear a pig can see the 
wind?" 

" I can't say that I did." 



144 Half Hours ivith Irish Atithors. 

" Oh ! thin, he does, and, for that reason, who 
has a right to know more about it ? '* 

** You don't, for one, I dare say, Paddy ; and 
may be you have a pig aboard to give you infor- 
mation." 

*' Sorra taste, yer honor, not as much as a rasher 
o* bacon ; but it's may be your honor never seen a 
pig tossing up his snout consaited like, and run- 
ning like mad afore a storm." 

'' Well, what if I have ? " 

'* Well, sir, that is when they see the wind 
a-comin." 

" May be so, Paddy, but all this knowledge in 
piggery won't find j^ou your way home ; and, if 
you take my advice, you will give up all thoughts 
of endeavoring to find your way back, and come 
on board. You and your messmates, I dare sa}^ 
wall be useful hands, with some teaching; but, at 
all events, I cannot leave you here on the open 
sea, with every chance of being lost." 

*' Why, thin, indeed, and Pm behowldin' to 
your honor ; and it's the hoighth o' kindness, so 
it is, you offer ; and it's nothin' else but a gintle- 
man you are, every inch o' you ; but I hope it's 
not so bad wid us yet as to do the likes o' that." 

" I think it's bad enough," said the captain, 
" w^hen you are without a compass, and knowing 
nothing of your course, and nearly a hundred and 
eighty leagues from land." 

*' An' how many miles would that be, captain?' 

" Three times as many." 



Barny O' Reirdon. 145 

" I never larned the rule o' three, captain, and 
may be your honor id tell me yourself." 

" That is rather more than five hundred miles." 

'' Five hundred miles ! " shouted Barny. *' Oh ! 
the Lord look down upon us ! How 'ill we ever 
get back ? " 

"That's what I say," said the captain; ''and, 
therefore, I recommend you to come aboard with 
me." 

*' And where 'ud the hooker be all the time?" 
said Barny. 

"• Let her go adrift," was the answ^er. 

" Is it the darlint boat ? Oh ! by dad, I'll never 
hear o' that, at all." 

*' Well, then, stay in her and be lost. Decide 
upon the matter at once — either come on board or 
cast off." 

And the captain was turning away as he spoke, 
when Barny called after him : '' Arrah, thin, your 
honor, don't go jist for one minit antil I ax you 
one word more. If I wint wid 3'Ou, v/hin would I 
be home again ? " 

" In about seven months." 

** Oh ! thin, that puts the wig an it at wanst. I 
daren't go at all." 

" Why, seven months are not long passing." 

*' Thrue for you, in troth," said Barny, with a 
shrug of his shoulders. '' Faix, it's myself knows, 
to my sorrow, the half year comes round mighty 
suddint, and the lord's agint comes for the thrifle 
o* rent ; and, faix, I know by Molly that nine 



146 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors, 

months is not long in comin' over either," added 
Barny, with a grin. 

'' Then, what's your objection as to the time ?" 
asked the captain. 

" Arrah, sure, sir, what would the woman that 
owns me do while I was away ? And may be it's 
break her heart the craythur would, thinking I 
was lost intirely ! And who'd be at home to take 
care o' the childher' and airn thim the bit and the 
sup, whin I'd be away? And who knows but it's 
all dead they'd be afore I got back ? Och hone ! 
sure the heart id fairly break in my bod}^ if hurt 
or harm kem to them through me. So say no 
more, captain, dear, only give me a thrifle o' di- 
rections how I'm to make an offer at gettin' home, 
and it's m3^self that v/ill pray for you night, noon, 
and mornin' for that same." 

'' Well, Paddy," said the captain, '' as you are 
determined to go back, in spite of all I can say, 
you must attend to me well while I give you as 
simple instructions as I can. You say you know 
the four points of the wund, north, south, east, and 
west? " 

" Yes, sir." 

'' How do you know them ? for I must see that 
you are not likely to make a m.istake. How do 
you know the points ?" 

'' Wh}^ you see, sir, the sun, God bless it, rises 
in the aist, and sets in the west, which stands to 
raison ; and, whin you stand bechuxt the aist and 
the west, the north is forninst you." 



Barny O' Rcirdon. 147 

** And when the north is forninst you, as you 
say, is the east on your right or your left hand ? " 

*' On the right hand, your honor." 

" Well, I see you know that much, however. 
Now," said the captain, " the moment you leave 
the ship you must steer a north-east course, and 
you will make some land near home in about a 
week, if the wind holds as it is now, and it is likely 
to do so ; but, mind me, if you turn out of the 
course in the sm.allest degree, you are a lost 
man." 

'■'■ Many thanks to your honor." 

" And how are you off for provisions ? " 

" Why, thin, indeed, in the regard o' that same, 
we are in the hoighth o' distress ; for exceptin' 
the scalpcens, sorra taste passed our lips for these 
four daj^s." 

*' Oh ! you poor devils ! " said the commander, 
in a tone of sincere commiseration. '' I'll order 
you some provisions on board before you start." 

'' Long life to your honor ! And Fd like to drink 
the health of so noble a gintleman." 

'' I understand you, Paddy, you shall have grog, 
too." 

" Musha, the heavens shower blessins an you, I 
pray the Virgin Marj^ and the twelve apostles, 
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, not forgittin' St. 
Pathrick!" 

''Thank you, Paddy; but keep your prayers 
for yourself, for you need them all to help you 
home again." 



148 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 

" Oh ! never fear; when the thing is to be done, 
I'll do it, by dad, wid a heart and a half. And 
sure, your honor, God is good, an' will mind des- 
solute craythurs like uz on the wild oceant as well 
as ashore." 

While some of the ship's crew were putting the 
captain's benevolent intentions to Barny and his 
companions into practice, by transferring some 
provisions to the hooker, the commander enter- 
tained himself by further conversation w^ith 
Barny, who was the greatest original he had ever 
met. In the course of their colloquy, Barny 
drove many hard queries at the captain respect- 
ing the wonders of the nautical profession, and at 
last put the question to him plump : 

'' Oh ! thin, captain dear, and how is it at all at 
all that you make your way over the wide says 
intirely to them furrin parts ? " 

" You would not understand, Paddy, if I at- 
tempted to explain to you." 

'' Sure enough, indeed, your honor, and I ask 
your pardon, only I was curious to know, and 
sure no wondher." 

*' It requires various branches of knowledge to 
make a navigator." 

" Branches !" said Barny, '' by gar, I think it id 
take the ivhole tree 0' knowledge to make it out. 
And that place you are going to, sir, that ^/;/gal 
(oh ! bad luck to it for a Bing2\, it's the sore Bin- 
gal to me), is it so far off as you say ? " 

''Yes, Paddy, half round the world." 



Bariiy O' Reirdon. 149 

''Is it round in airnest, captain dear? Round 
about?" 

** Aye, indeed." 

" Oh ! thin, ar'n't you afeard that whin you come 
to the top and that you're obleedged to go down, 
that you'd go slidderhin away intirely, and never 
be able to stop may be ? It's bad enough, so it is, 
going downhill by land, but it must be the dick- 
ens all out by wather." 

'' But there is no hill, Padd}^ ; don't you know 
that water is alwayslevel?" 

'' By dad, it's very yf^^/, anyhow, and by the same 
token it's seldom I throuble it ; but sure, your 
honor, if the wather is level, how do you make 
out that it is round you go ?" 

'' That is a part of the knowledge I was speak- 
ing to you about," said the captain. 

" Musha, bad luck to you, knowledge, but you're 
a quare thing ! And where is it Bingal, bad cess 
to it, would be at all at all?" 

" In the East Indies." 

*' Oh ! that is where they make the tay, isn't it, 
sir?" 

"■ No ; where the tea grows is further still." 

''Further! Why, that must be the ind of the 
world intirely; and they don't make it thin, sir, 
but it grows, you tell me." 

"Yes, Paddy." 

" Is it like hay, your honor?" 

" Not exactly, Paddy ; what puts hay in your 
head?" 



150 Half Hours zuith Irish Authors. 

^' Oh! only bekase I hear them call it Bohaj.'* 

'*' A most logical deduction, Paddy." 

''And is it a great deal farther, your honor, the 
^aj^ country is ?" 

"Yes, Paddy; China it is called." 

" That's, I suppose, what we call Chaynee, 
sir?" 

''Exactly, Paddy." 

" By dad, I never could come at it rightly 
before, why it was nath'ral to drink tay out o' 
chaynee. I ax your honor's pardon for bein* 
troublesome, but I hard tell from the long sailor 
iv a place they call Japan, in them furrin parts; 
and zs it there, your honor?" 

"Quite true, Paddy." 

" And I suppose it's there the blackin' comes 
from ?" ' 
. " No, Padd}^ ; you are out there." 

"Oh! well, I thought it stood to rayson, as I 
heerd of Japan blackin', sir, that it would be there 
it kem from ; besides, as the blacks themselves — 
the naygers, I mane — is in them parts." 

" The negroes are in Africa, Paddy, much near- 
er to us." 

" God betune us and harm ! I hope I would 
not be too near them," said Barny. 

" Why, what's 3^our objection ?" 

" Arrah, sure, sir, they're hardly mortials at all, 
but has the mark o' the bastes an thim." 

" How do you make out that, Paddy ?" 

" Why, sure, sir, and didn't Nature make thim 



Barny O' Reirdon. 151 

wid wool on their heads, plainly makin' it undher- 
stood to Chrishthans that they were little more 
nor cattle ?" 

"■ I think your head is a wool-gathering now, 
Paddy," said the captain, laughing. 

** Faix, may be so, indeed," answered Barny 
good-humoredly ; " but it's seldom I ever went out 
to look for wool and kem home shorn, anyhow," 
said he, with a look of triumph. 

'' Well, you won't have that to say for the future, 
Paddy," said the captain, laughing again. 

" My name's not Paddy, your honor," said Barny, 
returning the laugh, but seizing the opportunity to 
turn the joke aside that was going against him — 
'* my name isn't Paddy, sir, but Barny." 

'' Oh ! if it was Solomon, you'll be bare enough 
when you go home this time ; you have not gath- 
ered much this trip, Barny." 

'' Sure Pve been gathering knowledge, an3^how, 
3^our honor," said Barny, with a significant look 
at the captain, and a complimentary tip of his 
hand to his caubeen ; "and God bless you for 
being so good to me." 

'' And what's your name besides Barny ?" asked 
the captain. 

'' O'Reirdon, your honor — Barny O'Reirdon's 
my name." 

''Well, Barny O'Reirdon, I won't forget your 
name nor yourself in a hurr}^, for you are certainly 
the most original navigator I ever had the honor 
of being acquainted with." 



152 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

"■ Well," said Barny, with a triumphant toss of 
his head, "■ I have done Terry O'SuUivan, at any 
rate ; the devil a half so far he ever was, and that's 
a comfort. I have muzzled his clack for the rest 
iv his life, and he won't be comin' over us w^id the 
pride iv his Fingal, while I'm to the fore, that w^as 
a' most at Bingaiy 

'* Terry O'SuUivan — who is he, pray?" said the 
captain. 

''Oh! he's a scut iv a chap that's not worth 
your axin for — he's not worth your honor's notice 
— a braggin* poor crathur. Oh ! wait till I get 
home, and the devil a more braggin' they'll hear 
out of his jaw." 

" Indeed, then, Barny, the sooner 3^ou turn your 
face towards home, the better," said the captain ; 
" since you w^ill go, there is no need of your los- 
ing more time." 

" Thrue for you, your honor ; and sure it's well 
for me I had the luck to meet with the likes o* 
your honor, that explained the ins and the outs 
iv it to me, and laid it all down as plain as 
prent." 

"Are you sure you remember my directions?" 
said the captain. 

" Troth an* I'll niver forget them to the day o' 
my death, and is bound to pra}^ more betoken, for 
3^ou and yours." 

'* Don't mind praying for me till you get home, 
Barny; but answer me — how are you to steer 
when you shall leave me?" 



Barny O' Reirdon. 153 

"The nor'-aist coorse, your honor, that's the 
coorse agin the world." 

''Remember that! Never alter that course till 
you see land — let nothing- make you turn out of a 
north-east course." 

'' Throth an' that would be the dirty turn, see- 
in' that it was yourself that ordhered it. Oh ! no, 
I'll depend my life an the 7ior-aist coorse, and God 
help any that comes betune me an' it ! — I'd run 
him down if he was my father." 

''Well, good-by, Barny." 

" Good-by, and God bless you, your honor, 
and send you safe !" 

" That's a wish you want for yourself, Barny 
— never fear for me, but mind yourself well." 

" Oh ! sure I'm as good as at home wanst I know 
the way, barrin' the wind is conthi'ary ; sure the 
nor'-aist coorse '11 do the business complate. 
Good-by, your honor, and long life to you, and 
more power to your elbow, and a light heart and 
a heavy purse to you ever more, I pray the Bless- 
ed Virgin and all the saints, amin !" And so say- 
ing, Barny descended the ship's side, and once 
more assumed the helm of the "hardy hooker." 

The two vessels now separated on their oppo- 
site courses. What a contrast their relative situa- 
tions afforded ! Proudly the ship bore away un- 
der her lofty and spreading canvas, cleaving the 
billows before her, manned by an able crew, and 
under the guidance of experienced officers ; the 
finger of science to point the course of her prog- 



154 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 

ress, the foithful chart to warn of the hidden rock 
and the shoal, the long line and the quadrant to mea- 
sure her march and prove her position. The poor 
little hooker cleft not the billows, each wave lifted 
her on its crest like a sea-bird ; but the three inex- 
perienced fishermen to manage her ; no certain 
means to guide them over the vast ocean they 
had to traverse ; and the holding of the ''fickle 
wind" — the only <://^;/(;^of their escape from perish- 
ing in the wilderness of waters. By the one, the 
feeling excited is supremely that of man's power. 
By the other, of his utter helplessness. To the 
one, the expanse of ocean could scarcely be con- 
sidered '' trackless" ; to the other, it was a waste in- 
deed. Yet the cheer that burst from the ship at 
parting was answered as gaily from the hooker as 
though the odds had not been so fearfully against 
her, and no blither heart beat on board the ship 
than that of Barny O'Reirdon. 

Happy light-heartedness of my countr3^men ! 
How kindly have they been fortified by nature 
against the assaults of adversity ; and, if they blind- 
ly rush into dangers, they cannot be denied the 
possession of gallant hearts to fight their way out 
of them. 

But each hurrah became less audible ; b}^ degrees 
the cheers dwindled into faintness, and finally were 
lost in the eddies of the breeze. 

The first feeling of loneliness that poor Barny 
experienced was when he could no longer hear 
the exhilarating sound. The plash of the surge 



Barny O' Rcirdon. 155 

as it broke on the bows of his little boat was 
uninterrupted by the kindred sound of human 
voice ; and, as it fell upon his ear, it smote upon 
his heart. But he replied, waved his hat, and the 
silent signal was answered from those on board 
the ship. 

''Well, Barn}^" said Jemm}^ "what was the 
captain sayin' to 3'ou at the time you wor wid 
him?" 

"Lay me alone," said Barny; "I'll talk to you 
when I see her out o' sight, but not a word till 
thin. I'll look afther him, the rale gintleman that 
he i§, while there's a top-sail of his ship to be seen ; 
and then I'll send my blessin' afther him, and 
pray for his good fortune wherever he goes, for 
he's the right sort, and nothin' else." And Barny 
kept his word, and, when his straining eye could 
no longer trace a line of the ship, the captain cer- 
tainly had the benefit of "a poor man's blessing." 

The sense of utter loneliness and desolation had 
not come upon Barny until now ; but he put his 
trust in the goodness of Providence, and, in a fer- 
vent mental outpouring of prayer, resigned him- 
self to the care of his Creator. With an admir- 
able fortitude, too, he assumed a composure to 
his companions that was a stranger to his heart ; 
and we all know how the burden of anxiety is in- 
creased when we have none with whom to S3^m- 
pathize. And this was not all. He had to affect 
ease and confidence ; for Barny not only had no 
dependence on the firmness of his companions to 



156 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 

go through the undertaking before them, but 
dreaded to betray to them how he had imposed 
on them in the affair. Barny was equal to all 
this. He had a stout heart, and was an admir- 
able actor ; yet, for the first hour after the ship was 
out of sight, he could not quite recover himself, 
and ever}^ now and then unconsciously he would 
look back Avith a wishful eye to the point where 
last he saw her. Poor Barny had lost his leader ! 

The night fell, and Barny stuck to the hehii as 
long as nature could sustain want of rest, and 
then left it in charge of one of his companions, 
with particular directions how to steer, and 
ordered, if any change in the wind occurred, that 
they should instantly awake him. He could not 
sleep long, however, the fever of anxiety was 
upon him, and the morning had not long dawned 
Vv^hen he awoke. He had not w^ell rubbed his 
eyes and looked about him when he thought he 
saw a ship in the distance approaching them. As 
the haze cleared away, she showed distinctly 
bearing down towards the hooker. On board 
the ship, the hooker, in such a sea, caused sur- 
prise as before, and in about an hour she was so 
close as to hail and order the hooker to run 
under her lee." 

" The devil a taste," said Barny. *' I'll not 
quit my nor-aist coorse for the King of Ingland, 
nor Bonyparty into the bargain. Bad cess to 
you, do you think I've nothin' to do but plaze 
you ? " 



Barny O' Reirdon, 157 

Again he was hailed. 

** Oh ! bad luck to the toe I'll go to you." 

Another hail. 

" Spake loudher, you'd betther," said Barny 
jeeringly, still holding on his course. 

A gun was fired ahead of him. 

" By my sowl, you spoke loudher that time, 
sure enough," said Barny. 

** Take care, Barny!" cried Jemmy and Peter 
together. '' Blur-an-agers, man, we'll be kilt, if 
you don't go to them." 

'' Well, and we'll be lost if we turn out iv our 
nor-aist coorse, and that's as broad as it's long. 
Let them hit izif they like ; sure it ud be a plea- 
sant death nor starvin' at say. I'll tell you agin, 
I'll turn out o' my nor-aist coorse for no man," 

A shotted gun was fired. The shot hopped on 
the water, as it passed before the hooker. 

'■'■ Phew ! you missed it like your mammy's 
blessin'," said Barny. 

"■ Oh ! murthur !" said Jemmy. " Didn't you see 
the ball hop aff the wather forninst you ? Oh ! 
murthur, what 'ud we ha' done if we wor there 
at all at all?" 

** Why, we'd have taken the ball at the hop," said 
Barny, laughing, '' accordin' to the ould sayin'." 

Another shot was ineffectuall}^ fired. 

** I'm thinking that's a Connaughtman - that's 

*This is an allusion of Barny'sto a prevalent sayinj? in Ireland, addressed 
to a sportsman who returns home unsuccessful : " So vou've killed what the 
Connaughtman shot at ?" Besides, Barny herein indulges a provincial pique 
for the people of Munster have a profound contempt for Connaughtmen. 



158 Half Hours witJi Irish Authors. 

shootin'," said Barny, with a sneer. The allu- 
sion was so relished by Jemmy and Peter that it 
excited a smile in the midst of their fears from the 
cannonade. 

Again the report of the gun was followed by 
no damage. 

''Augh! never heed them!" said Barny con- 
temptuously. *' It's a barkin' dog that never 
bites, as the owld sayin* says." And the hooker 
was soon out of reach of further anno3^ance. 

'' Now, what a pity it was, to be sure," said 
Bani}^, ''that I wouldn't go aboord to plaze them ! 
Now, who's right ? Ah ! lave me alone, always, 
Jemmy ; did you iver know me wrong 3^et ? " 

*' Oh ! you may hillow now that you are out o' 
the wood," said Jemm)^ ; ''but, accordin' to my 
ida3^s, it was runnin' a grate risk to be conthrary 
wid them at all, and they shootin' balls afther us." 

" Well, w^hat matther," said Barn}^, " since 
the}^ wor ov\\ blind gunners, an I knew it. Be- 
sides, as I said afore, I won't turn out o' my nor- 
aist coorse for no man." 

" That's a new turn you tuk lately," said Peter. 
" What's the raison you're runnin' a nor'-aist 
coorse now, an we never heard iv it afore at all, 
till afther you quitted the big ship ? " 

" Why, thin, are you sitch an ignoramus all 
out," said Barny, "as not for to know that in 
navigation you must lie in a great many different 
tacks before you can make the port you steer 
for?" 



Barny O'Reirdon. 159 

•' Only I think," said Jemmy, '' that it's back 
intirely we're goin' now, and I can't make out the 
rights o' that at all." 

*' Why," said Barny, who saw the necessity of 
mystifying his companions a little, " you see, the 
captain towld me that I kum around, an' rekim- 
minded me to go th' other way." 

'' Faix, it's the first time I ever heard o' goin' 
round by say," said Jemmy. 

"• Arrah, sure, that's part o' the saycrets o' navi- 
gation and the various branches o' knowledge 
that is requizit for a navigator ; and that's what 
the captain, God bless him ! and myself was dis- 
coorsin an aboord ; and, like a ra-le gintleman as 
he is, Barny, sa3'S he ; Sir, says I ; You've come 
the round, says he. I know that, says I, bekase I 
like to keep a good bowld offin', says I, in contrai- 
ry places. Spoke like a good sayman, says he. 
That's my principles, says I. They're the right 
sort, says he. But says he (no offence), I think 
you wor Avrong, says he, to pass the short turn 
in the ladi-shoes,* says he. I know, says I, you 
mane beside the three-spike headlan'. That's 
the spot, says he, I see you know it. As well as I 
knoAV my father, says I." 

'' Wh}^, Barny," said Jemmy, interrupting him, 
" we seen no head-Ian' at all." 

" Whisht, whisht ! " said Barny,, '' bad cess to 
rou, don't thwart me ! We passed it in the night, 
ind you couldn't see it. Well, as I. was saying, I 

* Some offer Barny is making at latitudes. 



l6o Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 

knew it as well as I know my father, says I, but 
I gev the preference to go the round, says I. 
You're a good sayman for that same, says he, an' 
it would be right at any other time than this 
present, says he, but it's onpossible now, teeto- 
tally, on account o' the war, says he. Tare alive, 
says I, what war ? An' didn't you hear o' the 
war ? says he. Divil a word, says I. Why, says 
he, the Naygurs has made war on the king o' 
Chaynee, says he, bekase he refused them any 
more tay ; an' with that, what do they do, says 
he, but they put a lumbago on all the vessels that 
sails the round, an' that's the ray son, says he, I 
carry guns, as you may see ; and I rekimmind 
you, says he, to go back, for you're not able for 
thim, and that's jist the way iv it. An' now, 
wasn't it looky that I kem acrass him at all ? 
Or may be we might be cotch by the Naygurs, 
and ate up alive." 

'' Oh ! thin, indeed, and that's thrue," said Jem- 
my and Peter, '' and when will we come to the 
short turn ? " 

" Oh ! never mind," said Barny, '' you'll see it 
when you get there ; but wait till I tell you more 
about the captain and the big ship. He said, you 
know, that he carried guns afeard o' the Naygurs ; 
and, in troth, it's the hoight o' care he takes o' 
them same guns ; and small blame to him, sure, 
they might be the salvation of him. 'Pon my 
conscience, they're taken betther care of than any 
poor man's child. I heerd him cautionin' the 



Barny O' Reirdon, i6i 

sailors about them, and givin them ordhers about 
their clothes." 

''Their clothes !" said his two companions at 
once in much surprise ; "■ is it clothes upon can- 
nons ?" 

'' It's thruth I'm tellin' j^ou," said Barny. " Bad 
luck to the lie in it, he was talkin' about their 
aprons and their breeches." 

"Oh! think o' that!" said Jemmy and Peter, 
in surprise. 

" An' 'twas all iv a piece," said Barn}^, '' that 
an' the rest o' the ship all out. She was as nate 
as a new pin. Throth I was a'most ashamed to 
put my fut on the deck, it was so clane, and she 
painted every color in the rainbow ; and all sorts 
o' curiosities about her ; and, instead iv a tiller to 
steer her, like this darlin' craythur iv ours, she 
goes wid a wheel, like a coach all as one ; and 
there's the quarest thing you iver seen, to show 
the way, as the captain gev me to understan', — a 
little round rowly-powly thing in a bowl, that 
goes waddlin' about as if it didn't know it's own 
way, much more nor show anybody theirs. 
Throth m37'self' thought that if that's the way 
they're obliged to go, that it's with a great deal 
o{ fear and thrimblin they find it out." 

Thus it w^as that Barny continued most marvel- 
lous accounts of the ship and captain to his com- 
panions, and, by keeping their attention so engag- 
ed, prevented their being too inquisitive as to 
their own immediate concerns ; and for two days 



1 62 Half Hours with Irish Authors, 

more Barnj and the hooker held on their respec- 
tive courses undeviatingly. 

The third da}^ Barny's fears for the continuity 
of his nor-aist coorse were excited, as a large brig 
hove in sight, and the nearer she approached, the 
more directly the appeared to be coming athwart 
Barny's course. 

'' May the divil sweep you !" said Barny. '' And 
will nothin' else sarve you than comin' forninst 
me that away? Brig ahoy, there!" shouted 
Barny, giving the tiller to one of his messmates, 
and standing at the bow of his boat. '' Brig ahoy, 
there ! — bad luck to you, go 'long out o' my nor- 
aist coorse!'' The brig, instead of obeying him, 
hove to, and lay right ahead of the hooker. " Oh ! 
look at this !" shouted Ban\y, and he stamped on 
the deck with rage — "look at the blackguards 
where they're stayin'., just a-purpose to ruin an 
unfortunate man like me. INIy heavy hathred to 
you! Quit this minit, or I'll run down an yez, and, 
if we go to the bottom, we'll haunt 3^ou for ever- 
more — go 'long out o' that, I tell you ! The curse 
o' Crummil on you, 3^ou stupid vagabones, that 
won't go out iv a man's nor'-aist coorse !" 

From cursing, Barny went to praying as he 
came closer. '■' For the tendher marcy o' heaven, 
an* lave my way. May the Lord reward you, 
and get out o' my nor'-aist coorse ! Ma}^ angels 
make your bed in heavin and don't ruinate me 
this a way." The brig was immovable, and 
Barny finished with a duet volley of prayers and 



Bai'uy O" Reirdon. 163 

curses together, apostrophizing the hard case of 
a man being '' done out d" his nor-aist coorse.'' 

" Ahoy there !" shouted a voice from the brig. 
'^ Put dov/n your helm, or you'll be aboard of us. 
I say, let go your jib and foresheet — what are you 
about, you lubbers ?" 

'Twas true that the brig lay so fair in Barny's 
course that he would have been aboard, but that, 
instantly the manoeuvre above alluded to was put 
in practice on board the hooker as she swept to 
destruction towards the heavy hull of the brig, he 
luffed up into the wind alongside her. A very 
-pale and somewhat emaciated face appeared at 
the side, and addressed Barny — 

'' What brings 3^ou here ?" was the question. 

*' Throth, thin, and I think I might betther ax 
what brings j^?/ here, right in the way o' m}^ iior- 
aist coorse^ 

" Where do you come from?" 

" From Kinsale ; and you didn't come from a 
betther place, I go bail." 

'* Where are you bound to ?" 

''To Fingal." 

'' Fingal — where's Fingal ?"♦ 

" Why, then, ain't you ashamed yourself an' not 
to know where Fingal is ?" 

'' It is not in these seas." 

''Oh! and that's all 3^ou know about it," says 
Barny. 

" You're a small craft to be so far at sea. I 
suppose you have provisions on board?" 



164 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

"■ To be sure we have ; throth if we hadn't, this 
id be a bad place to go a beggin'." 

'' What have you eatable ?" 

** The finest o' scalpeens^ 

" What are scalpecnsf' 

" Why, )^ou're mighty ignorant intirely," said 
Barny ; " why, i't:^^^^^-';?^' is pickled mackerel." 

'* Then you must give us some, for we have 
been out of everything eatable these three days ; 
and even pickled fish is better than nothing." 

It chanced that the brig v/as a West India trader, 
which unfavorable winds had delayed much be- 
yond the expected period of time on her voyage, 
and, though her water had not failed, everything 
eatable had been consumed, and the crew reduc- 
ed almost to helplessness. In such a strait, the 
arrival of Barny O'Reirdon and his scalpeens was 
a most providential succor to them, and a lucky 
chance for Barny, for he got in exchange for his 
pickled fish a handsome return of rum and sugar, 
much more than equivalent to their value. Barny 
lamented much, however, that the brig was not 
bound for Ireland, that he might practise his own 
peculiar system of navigation ; but, as staying with 
the brig could do no good, he got himself put 
into his nor-aist coorse once more, and ploughed 
away towards home. 

The disposal of his cargo was a great godsend 
to Barny in more w^aj^s than one. In the first 
place, he found the most profitable market he 
could have had : and, secondly, it enabled him 



Barny O'Rcirdon. 165 

to cover his retreat from the difficulty which still 
was before him of not getting to Fingal after all 
his dangers, and consequently being open to dis- 
covery and disgrace. All these beneficial results 
were thrown away upon one of Barny's readiness 
to avail himself of every point in his favor ; and, 
accordingl}^, when they left the brig, Barny said 
to his companions, *' Why, thin, boys, 'pon my 
conscience, but I'm as proud as a horse wid a 
wooden leg this rainit, that we met them poor 
unfortinate craythers this blessed day, and was 
enabled to extind our charity to them. Sure an' it's 
lost they'd be, only for our comin' acrass them, 
and we, through the blessin' o' God, enabled to 
do an act o' marcy, that is, feedin' the hungry ; 
and sure every good work we do here is before 
uz in heaven — and that's a comfort anyhow. To 
be sure, now that the scalpeens is sowld, there's 
no use in goin' to Fingal, and we may as well jist 
go home." 

" Faix, Fm sorry myself," said Jemmy, ''for 
Terry O'SuUivan said it was an iligant place in- 
tirely, an' I wanted to see it." 

'' To the divil wid Terry O'SuUivan !" said 
Barny ; '' How does he know what's an iligant 
place? What knowledge has he of iligance ! Fll 
go bail he never was half as far a navigatin' as we 
— he wint the short cut, I go bail, and never dar'd 
for to vinture the round, as I did." 

'' By dad, we wor a great dale longer anyhow 
than he towld me he was." 



1 66 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

''To be sure we wor/' said Barny ; " be wiiit 
skulkin' in b}^ the short cut, I tell you, and was 
afeard to keep a bowld offin' like me. But come, 
boys, let uz take a dhrop o' the bottle o' sper'ts 
we got out o' the brig-. By gor, it's well we got 
some bottles iv it; for I wouldn't much like to 
meddle wid that darlint little ka?- iv it antil we 
get home." The rum was put on its trial by 
Barny and his companions, and in their critical 
judgment was pronounced quite as good as the 
captain of the ship had bestowed upon them, but 
that neither of'those specimens of spirit was to be 
compared to whiskey. " By dad," says Barny, 
" they ma}^ rack their brains a long time before 
they'll make out a purtier invintion than pottcen ; 
that rum may do very well for thim that has the 
misforthin not to know betther ; but the whiskey 
is a more nath'ral sper't, accordin' to my idays." 
In this, as in most other of Barny's opinions, 
Peter and Jemmy coincided. 

Nothing particular occurred for the two suc- 
ceeding days, during which time Barny most 
religiously pursued his nor-aist coorsc^ but the third 
day produced a new and important event. A 
sail was discovered on the horizon, and in the 
direction Barny was steering, and a couple of 
hours made him tolerably certain that the vessel 
in sight was an American ; for though it is need- 
less to say that he Avas not very conversant in 
such matters, yet, from the frequency of his see- 
ing Americans trading to Ireland, his eve had 



Barriy O' Relrdon. 167 

become sufficiently accustomed to their lofty and 
tapering- spars and peculiar smartness of rig- to 
satisfy him that the ship before him Av.as of transat- 
lantic build ; nor was he wrong in his conjecture. 

Barny now determined on a manoeuvre classing 
him among the first tacticians at securing a good 
retreat. 

Moreau's highest fame rests upon his celebrated 
retrograde movement through the Black Forest. 

Xenophon's greatest glory is derived from the 
deliverance of his ten thousand Greeks from 
impending ruin, by his renowned retreat. 

Let the ancient and the modern hero '' repose 
under the shadow of their laurels," as the French 
have it, while Barny O'Reirdon's historian, with 
a pardonable jealousy for the honor of his country, 
cuts down a goodly bough of the classic tree, be- 
neath which our Hibernian hero may enjoy his 
^'' otiiun aim dignitatem 

Barny calculated the American was bound foi 
Ireland, and, as she lay almost as directly in the 
way of ^xis '"'' iior -aist coorse" as the West Indian 
brig, he bore up to and spoke her. 

He Vv^as ansv/ered by a shrewd Yankee cap- 
tain. 

'' Faix, an' it's glad I am to see 3^our honor 
again," said Barny. 

The Yankee had never been to Ireland, and told 
Barny so. 

*' Oh ! throth I couldn't forget a gentleman so 
aisy as that," said Barny. 



1 68 Half Hours vcith Irish Authors. 

*' You're pretty considerable mistaken now, I 
guess," said the American. 

*' Divil a taste," said Barn}^, with inimitable com- 
posure and pertinacity. 

'' Well, if you know me so tarnation well, tell 
me what's my name ?" The Yankee flattered him- 
self he had nailed Barny now. 

''Your name, is it?" said Barny, gaining time 
by repeating the question. '' Why, what a fool )^ou 
are not to know your own name." 

The oddity of the answer posed the American, 
and Barny took advantage of the diversion in his 
favor, and changed the conversation. 

*' By dad, I've been waitin' here these four or 
five days, expectin' some of you would be wantin' 
me." 

" Some of us! — how do you mean?" 

'' Sure an' ar'n't you from Amerikay ?" 

'' Yes; and what then?" 

" Well, I say I was waitin' for some ship or 
other from Amerikay that 'ud be wantin' me. It's 
to Ireland you're goin ? ' 

'' Yes." 

" Well, I suppose you'll be wanting a pilot," 
said Barn}^ 

'' Yes, when we get in shore, but not )'et." 

'' Oh! I don't want to hurry you," said Barny. 

*' What port are you a pilot of'?" 

" Why, indeed, as for the matther o' that," said 
Barny, *' they're all aiquel to me, a'most." 

** All!" said the American. '' Whv, I calculate 



Barny O' Rcirdon. 169 

you couldn't pilot a ship into all the ports of 
Ireland." 

" Not all at wanst (once)," said Barny, with a 
laugh, in which the American could not help 
joining. 

"- Well, I say, what ports do you know best?" 

" Why, thin, indeed," said Barny, '' it would be 
hard for me to tell ; but, wherever you want to go, 
I'm the man that'll do the job for you complate. 
Where is your honor going ?" 

** I won't tell you that — but do you tell me the 
ports you know best." 

"' Why, there's Watherford, and there's You- 
ghal, an' Fingal." 

" Fingal — where's that?" 

^' So you don't know where Fingal is? Oh! I 
see your a sthranger, sir — an' then there's Cork." 

*' You'know Cove, then ?" 

'^s it the Cove o' Cork?" 

^' Yes." 

*' I was bred and born there, and pilots as 
many ships into Cove as any other two min out 
of it." 

Barny thus sheltered his falsehood under the 
idiom of his language. 

''But what brought you so far out to sea?" 
asked the captain. 

'' We wor lyin' out lookin' for ships that want- 
ed pilots, and there kem an the terriblest gale o* 
wind aff the land, an' blew us to say out intirely, 
an' that's the way iv it, your honor." 



170 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 

" I calculate we got a share of the same gale ; 
'twas from the nor'-east." 

" Oh ! directly !" said Barn3^ " Faith you're right 
enough ; 'twas the nor-aist coorse we were an, sure 
enough ; but no matther now that we've met wid 
you — sure we'll have a job home, anyhow." 

" Weil, get aboard then," said the American. 

'' I will in a minit, your honor, whin I jist spake 
a word to my comrades here." 

" Why, sure it's not goin' to turn pilot 3^ou are ?" 
said Jemmy, in his simplicit}^ of heart. 

''Whist, you omadhaun !" said Barny, " or Fli 
cut the tongue out o' 3'ou. Now mind me, Pether. 
You don't undherstan' navigashin and the varrious 
branches o' knowledge, an' so all you have to do 
is to folly the ship when I get into her, an' I'll 
show you the way home." 

Barny then got aboard the American vessel, 
and begged of the captain that, as he had been 
out to sea so long, and had gone through " a 
power o' hardship intirely," that he would be 
permitted to go below aiad turn in to take a 
sleep; "for, in throth, it's myself and sleep that 
is sthrayngers for some time," said Barny, " an', 
if your honor '11 be plazed, I'll be thankful if 3'Ou 
won't let them disturb me until Tm wanted, for 
sure till you see the land there's no use for me in 
life, an' throth I want a sleep sorely." 

Barny's request was granted, and it will not be 
wondered at that, after so much fatigue of mind 
and body, he slept profoundly for four~and-twenty 



Barny O' Rcirdon. I'ji 

hours. He then was called, for land v, /..' \\l olghtj 
and when he came on deck the captahi rallied 
him upon the potency of his somniferous qualities^ 
and '' calculated " he had never met any one who 
could sleep '* four-and-twenty hours at a stretch 
before." 

'' Oh ! sir," said Barny, rubbing- his eyes, which 
were still a little hazy, '* whiniver I go to sleep, / 
pay attintion to it.'' 

The land was soon neared, and Barny put in 
charge of the ship when he ascertained the first 
landmark he was acquainted with ; but, as soon as 
the Head of Kinsale hove in sight, Barny gave a 
*' whoo!" and cut a caper that astonished the Yan- 
kees, and was quite inexplicable to them, though 
I flatter myself it is not to those who do Barny 
the favor of reading his adventures. 

" Oh ! there 3^ou are, my darlint ould head ! An' 
Where's the head like o' you ? Throth it's little 
I'd thought I'd ever set eyes an your good-look- 
ing faytures agin. But God's good !" 

In such half-muttered exclamations did Barny 
apostrophize each well-known point of his native 
shore, and, when opposite the harbor of Kinsale, 
he spoke the hooker that was somev/hat astern, 
and ordered Jemmy and Peter to put in there and 
tell Molly immediately that he was come back, and 
would be with her as soon as he could, after pilot- 
ing the ship into the Cove. " But> on your apperl, 
don't tell Pether Kelly o' the big farm, nor indeed 
don't mintion to man or mortial, about the naviga- 



172 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 

tion we done antil I come home m3^self and make 
them sensible o' it, bekase, Jemmy and Pether, 
neither o' yiz is equal to it, and doesn't undher- 
stan' the branches o' knowledge requizit for dis- 
coorsin' o' navigation." 

The hooker put into Kinsale, and Barny sailed 
the ship into Cove. It was the first ship he ever 
had acted the pilot for, and his old luck attended 
him ; no accident befell his charge, and, what was 
still more extraordinary, he made the American 
believe he was absolutely the most skilful pilot on 
the station. So Barny pocketed his pilot's fee, 
swore the Yankee was a gentleman, for which the 
republican did not thank him, wished him good- 
by, and then pushed his way home with what 
Barny swore was the aisiest made mone}^ he ever 
had in his life. So Barny got himself paid for 
piloting t\\Q ship that shozucd Jiim the way home. 

On reaching home, all w^ere ready to throw their 
caps at his feet. None but an Irishman, I fear- 
lessly assert, could have executed so splendid a 
coup de finesse. 

As some curious persons (I dont mean the ladies) 
may wish to know what became of some of the 
characters who have figured in this tale, I beg to 
inform them that Molly continued a faithful wife 
and time-keeper, as already alluded to, for many 
years ; that Peter Kelly was so pleased with his 
share in the profits arising from the trip, in the 
ample return of rum and sugar, that he freighted 
a large brig with scalpeens to the West Indies, 



Barny O' Reirdon. ly^i 

and went supercargo himself. All he got in return 
was yellow fever. 

Barny profited better by his share ; he was 
enabled to open a public-house which had more 
custom than any ten within miles of it. Molly 
managed the bar very efficiently, and Barny 
" discoorsed" the customers most seductively ; in 
short, Barny, at all times given to the marvellous^ 
became a greater romancer than ever, and for 
years attracted even the gentlemen of the neigh- 
borhood who loved fun to his house, for the sake 
of his magnanimous mendacity. 

As for the hitherto triumphant Terry O 'Sul- 
livan, from the moment Barny's ^/;/^<^/ adventure 
became known, he was obliged to fly the country, 
and was never heard of more, while the hero of 
the hooker became a greater man than before, 
and never was addressed by any other title after- 
wards than that of The Commodore. 



THE PRIEST'S STORY. 



I HAVE already made known unto you that 
a 3^ounger brother and myself were left to 
the care of my mother. Best and dearest of moth- 
ers, said the holy man — sighing deeply, and 
clasping his hands ferventl}^, while his hands were 
lifted to heaven, as if love made him conscious 
that the spirit of her he lamented had found its 
eternal rest there — thy gentle and affectionate 
nature sank under the bitter trial that an all-wise 
Providence was pleased to visit thee with ! Well, 
sir, Frank was my mother's darling; not that 
you are to understand, by so saying, that she was 
of that weak and capricious tone of mind which 
lavished its care upon one at the expense of 
others — far from it ; never was a deep store of 
maternal love more equally shared than among 
the four brothers ; but when the two seniors went 
away, and I was some time after sent, for my 
studies, to St. Omer, Frank became the object 
upon which all the tenderness of her affectionate 
heart might exercise the little maternal cares that 
hitherto had been divided amongst many. In- 
deed, my dear Frank deserved it all ; his Avas the 
gentlest of natures, combined with a mind of sin- 



TJie Pricsfs Story, 175 

giilar strength and brilliant imagination. In 
short, as the phrase has it, he was " the flower of 
the flock," and great things were expected from 
him. 

It was some time after my return from St. 
Omer, while preparations were making for advanc- 
ing Frank in the pursuit which had been selected 
as the business of his life, that every hour which 
drew nearer to the moment of his departure made 
him dearer not only to us, but to all who knew 
him, and each friend claimed a day that Frank 
should spend with him, which always passed in 
recalling the happy hours they had already spent 
together, in assurances given and received, of 
kindly remembrances that still should be che- 
rished, and in mutual wishes for success, with 
many a hearty prophecy from my poor Frank's 
friends that he would one day be a great man. 

One night, as my mother and m3^self were sit- 
ting at home beside the fire, expecting Frank's 
return from one of these parties, my mother said- 
in an unusually anxious tone : 

" I wish Frank was come home." 

'' What makes you think of his return so soon ?" 
said I. 

'•'I don't know," said she, "but somehow I'm 
uneasy about him." 

''Oh! make yourself quiet," said I, *' on that 
subject ; vv-e cannot possibly expect Frank for an 
hour to come yet." 

Still my mother could not become calm, and 



iy6 Half Hours witJi Irish Authors. 

she fidgeted about the room, became busy in 
doing- nothing, and now and then would go to the 
door of the house to listen for the distant tramp 
of Frank's horse ; but Frank came not. 

More than the hour I had named as the proba- 
ble time of his return had elapsed, and my moth- 
er's anxiety had amounted to a painful pitch, and 
I began myself to blame my brother for so long 
and late an absence. Still, I endeavored to calm 
her, and had prevailed on her to seat herself again 
at the fire, and commenced reading a page or two 
of an amusing book, when suddenly she stopped 
me, and turned her head to the window in the 
attitude of listening. 

" It is ! it is ! " said she ; " I hear him coming." 
And now the sound of a horse's feet in a rapid 
pace became audible. She rose from her chair, 
and, Avith a deeply aspirated *' Thank God I " went 
to open the door for him herself. 1 heard the 
horse now pass by the window ; in a second oi 
two more, the door was opened, and instantly a 
fearful scream from my mother brought me 
hastily to her assistance. I found her lying in the 
hall in a deep swoon ; the servants of the house 
hastily crowded to the spot and gave her imme- 
diate aid. I ran to the door to ascertain the 
cause of my mother's alarm, and there I saw 
Frank's horse panting and foaming, and the sad- 
dle empty. That my brother had been thrown 
and badly hurt was the first thought that sug- 
gested itself; and a car and horse were immcdi- 



71ie Priest's Story. I'jj 

ately ordered to drive in the direction he had 
been returning- ; but in a few minutes our fears 
were excited to the last degree by discovering 
there was blood on the saddle. 

We all experienced inconceivable terror at the 
discovery ; but, not to weary you with details, suf- 
fice it to say that we commenced a diligent 
search, and at length arrived at a small by-way 
that turned from the main road and led through 
a bog, which was the nearest course for my 
brother to have taken homewards, and we ac- 
cordingly began to explore it. I v/as mounted 
on the horse my brother had ridden, and the ani- 
mal snorted violently, and exhibited evident 
symptoms of dislike to retrace this by-way, which, 
I doubted not, he had already travelled that 
night ; and this very fact made me still more ap- 
prehensive that some terrible occurrence must 
have taken place to occasion such excessive re- 
pugnance on the part of the animal. However, I 
urged him onward, and, telling those who accom- 
panied me to follow with what speed they might, 
I dashed forward, followed by a faithful dog of 
poor Frank's. 

At the termination of about half a mile, the 
horse became still more impatient of restraint, 
and started at every ten paces, and the dog be- 
gan to traverse the little road, giving an occa- 
sional yelp, sniffing the air strongly, and lashing 
his sides with his tail, as if on some scent. 

At length he came to a stand, and beat about 



178 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

within a very circumscribed space, yelping- occa- 
sionally, as if to draw my attention. I dismount- 
ed immediately, but the horse was so extremely 
restless that the difficulty I had in holding him 
prevented me from observing the road by the 
light of the lantern which I carried. I perceived, 
however, it was ver}^ much trampled hereabouts, 
and bore evidence of having been the scene of a 
struggle. 

I shouted to the party in the rear, who soon 
came up and lighted some fagots of bog-wood, 
Avhich they brought with them to assist in our 
search, and we now more clearly distinguished 
the marks I have alluded to. 

The dog still howled and indicated a particular 
spot to us ; and on one side of the path, upon the 
stunted grass, we discovered a quantity of fresh 
blood, and I picked up a pencil-case which I 
knew had belonged to my murdered brother — for 
I now was compelled to consider him as such — 
and an attempt to describe the agonized feelings 
which at that moment I experienced would be in 
vain. 

We continued our search for the discovery 
of his body for many hours without success, and 
the morning was far advanced before we returned 
home — how changed a home from the preced- 
ing day ! 

My beloved mother could scarcely be roused 
for a moment from a sort of stupor which seized 
upon her when the paroxysm of frenzy was over 



TJie Priesfs Story, 179 

which the awful catastrophe of the fatal night had 
produced. 

If ever heart was broken, hers was. She linger- 
ed but a few weeks after the son she adored, and 
seldom spoke during the period, except to call 
upon his name. 

But I will not dwell on this painful theme. 
Suffice it to say she died; and her death, under 
such circumstances, increased the sensation which 
my brother's mysterious murder had excited. 
Yet, with all the horror which was universally 
entertained for the crime, and the execrations 
poured upon its atrocious perpetrator, still the 
doer of the deed remained undiscovered ; and 
even I, who of course was the most active in seek- 
ing to develop the mystery, not only could catch 
no clue to lead to the discovery of the murderer, 
but failed even to ascertain where the mangled 
remains of my lost brother had been deposited. 

It was nearly a year after the fatal event that 
a penitent knelt to me and confided to the ear of 
his confessor the misdeeds of an ill-spent life ! I say 
of his whole life, for he had never before knelt at 
the confessional. 

Fearful was the catalogue of crime that was 
revealed to me — unbounded selfishness, oppres- 
sion, revenge, and lawless passion had held unbri- 
dled influence over the unfortunate sinner, and 
sensuality in all its shapes, even to the polluted 
home and betra3^ed maiden, had plunged him 
deeply into sin. 



i8o Half Hours zvith Irish Aitiiiors. 

1 was shocked — I may even say I was disgusted — 
and the culprit himself seemed to shrink from the 
recapitulation of his crimes, which he found more 
extensive and appalling than he had dreamed of, 
until the recital of them called them all up in fear- 
ful array before him. I was about to commence 
an admonition, when he interrupted me — he had 
more to communicate. I desired him to proceed 
— he writhed before me. I enjoined him in the 
name of the God he had offended, and who 
knoweth the inmost heart, to make an unreserved 
disclosure of his crimes before he dared to seek a 
reconciliation with his Maker. At length, aftei 
man}^ a pause and convulsive sob, he told me, in a 
voice almost suffocated by terror, that he had been 
guilty of bloodshed. I shuddered, but in a short 
tirpe I recovered myself, and asked how and 
where he had deprived a fellow-creature of life. 
Never, to the latest hour of my life, shall I forget 
the look which the miserable sinner gave me at 
that moment. His eyes were glazed and seemed 
starting from their sockets with terror; his face 
assumed a deadly paleness ; he raised his clasped 
hands up to me in the most imploring action, as if 
supplicating mercy, and, with livid and quivering 
lips, he gasped out, ** *Twas I who killed your 
brother!" 

O God! how I felt at that instant! Even now, 
after the lapse of years, I recollect the sensation — 
it was as if the blood were flowing back upon my 
heart, until I felt as if it would burst; and then a 



The Priest's Sio7y. i8l 

few convulsive breathings, and back rushed the 
blood again through my tingling veins. I thought 
I was djdng ; but suddenly I uttered an hysteric 
laugh, and fell back senseless in my seat. 

When I recovered, a cold sweat was pouring 
down my forehead, and I was weeping copiously. 
Never before did I feel my manhood annihilated 
under the influence of an hysterical affection — it 
was dreadful. 

I found the blood-stained sinner supporting me, 
roused from his own prostration by a sense of 
terror at my emotion ; for, when I could hear any- 
thing, his entreaties that I would not discover 
upon him were poured forth in the most abject 
strain of supplication. *' Fear not for your miser- 
able life," said I ; *' the seal of confession is upon 
what you have revealed to me, and so far you are 
safe ; but leave me for the present, and come not 
-to me again until I send for you." He departed. 

I knelt and prayed for strength to him who 
alone could give it to fortify me in this dreadful 
trial. Here was the author of a brother's murder, 
and a mother's consequent death, discovered to 
me in the person of my penitent. It was a fear- 
ful position for a frail mortal to be placed in ; but 
as a consequence of the holy calling I professed, 
I hoped, through the blessing of him whom I 
served, to acquire fortitude for the trial into which 
the ministry of his Gospel had led me. 

The fortitude I needed came through prayer, 
and, when I thought myself equal to the task, I 



1 82 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 

sent for the murderer of my brother. I officiated 
for him as our church has ordained — I appointed 
penances to him, and, in short, dealt with him 
merely as any other confessor might have done. 

Years thus passed away, and during that time 
he constantly attended his duty ; and it was remark- 
ed through the country that he had become a 
quieter person since Father Roach had become 
his confessor. But still he was not liked, and, in- 
deed, I fear he was far from a reformed man, 
though he did not allow his transgressions to be 
so glaring as they were wont to be ; and I began 
to think that terror and cunning had been his 
motives in suggesting to him the course he had 
adopted, as the opportunities which it gave him 
of beinof often with me as his confessor were like- 
ly to lull every suspicion of his guilt in the eyes 
of the world ; and, in making me the depositary of 
his fearful secret, he thus placed himself beyond 
the power of my pursuit, and interposed the 
strongest barrier to my becoming the avenger of 
his bloody deed. 

Hitherto I have not made you acquainted with 
the cause of that foul act — it was jealousy. He 
found himself rivalled by my brother in the good 
graces of a beautiful girl of moderate circum- 
stances, whom he would have wished to obtain as 
his wife, but to whom Frank had become an 
object of greater interest; and I doubt not, had 
my poor fellow been spared, that marriage would 
ultimately have drawn closer the ties that were so 



The Pries fs Story. 183 

savasjely severed. But the ambuscade and the 
knife had done their deadly work; for the coward- 
ly villain had lain in wait for him on the lonely 
boo--road he guessed he would travel on that fa al 
night, and, springing from his lurking-place, he 
stabbed my noble Frank in the back. _ 

Well sir, I fear I am tiring you with a story 
which you cannot wonder is interesting to me ; 
but I shall hasten to a conclusion. 

One gloomy evening in March, I was ndmg 
along the very road where my brother had met 
his fate, in company with his murderer. I know 
not what brought us together in such a place, ex- 
cept the hand of Providence that sooner or later 
brin-s the murderer to justice; for I was not 
wont to pass the road, and loathed the company 
of the man who happened to overtake me upon it. 
I know not whether it was some secret visitation 
of conscience that influenced him at the time, or 
that he thought the lapse of years had wrought 
upon me so far as to obliterate the grief for my 
brother's death, which had never been till that 
moment alluded to, however remotely, since he 
confessed his crime. Judge, then, my surprise 
when, directing my attention to a particular point 

in the bog, he said : , tu • 

" Tis close by that place that your brother is 

Tcould not, I think, have been more astonished 
had my brother appeared before me. 
*' What brother?" said I. 



1 84 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors, 

"■ Your brother Frank," said he; '' 'twas there I 
buried him, poor fellow, after I killed him." 

'' JNIerciful God ! thy will be done." And, seiz- 
ing the rein of the culprit's horse, I said, " Wretch 
that you are ! you have owned to the shedding 
of the innocent blood that has been crying to 
heaven for vengeance these ten years, and I arrest 
you here as my prisoner." 

He turned ashy pale, as he faltered out a few 
w^ords to say I had promised not to betray him. 

*' 'Twas under the seal of confession," said I, 
" that you disclosed the deadly secret, and under 
that seal my lips must have been for ever closed ; 
but now, even in the very place where your crime 
was committed, it has pleased God that you 
should arraign yourself in the face of the world, 
and the brother of your victim is appointed to 
be the avenger of his innocent blood." 

He was overwhelmed by the awfulness of this 
truth, and unresistingly he rode beside me to the 

adjacent town of , where he was committed 

for trial. . 

The report of this singular and providential 
discovery of a murderer excited a great deal of 
interest in the country ; and, as I was known to be 
the culprit's confessor, the bishop of the diocese 
forwarded a statement to a higher quarter, which 
procured for me a dispensation as regarded the 
confessions of the criminal ; and I was handed this 
instrument absolving me from further secrecy, a 
few days before the trial. I was the principal 



TJie Pricsfs Story, 185 

evidence against the prisoner. The body of my 
brother had, in the interim, been found in the spot 
his murderer had indicated, and the bog preserv- 
ed it so far from decay as to render recognition a 
task of no difficulty. The proof was so satisfacto- 
rily adduced to the jury that the murderer was 
found guilty and executed ten years after he had 
committed the crime. 

The judge pronounced a very feeling corYiment 
on the nature of the situation in which I had been 
placed for so many years, and passed a very flat- 
tering culogium upon what he was pleased to call, 
" my heroic observance of the obligation of the 
secrecy by which I had been bound." 

Thus, sir, you see how sacred a trust that of a 
fact revealed under confession is held by our 
church, when even the avenp-ins: of a brother's 
murder was not sufficient warranty for its being 
broken.* 

* This story is a fact, and the comment of the judge upon the priest's fidelity, 
I am happy to say, is true. 



PADDY THE PIPER. 



Dogberry. — " Marr}^ sir, they have committed false reports ; 
moreover, they have spolcen untruths ; secondarily, they are slan- 
derers ; sixthly, and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they 
have verified unjust things ; and, to conclude, they are lying 
knaves." — MkcIl Ado about Nothing. 

THE only introduction I shall attempt to the 
following extravaganza^ is to request the 
reader to suppose it to be delivered by a frolick- 
ing Irish peasant, in the richest brogue and most 
dramatic manner : 

I'll tell you, sir, a mighty quare story, and it's 
as thrue as I'm standin' here, and that's no lie. 

It was in the time of the ''ruction,'''^ when the 
long summer days, like many a fine fellow's pre- 
cious life, was cut short by raison of the martial 
law that wouldn't let a dacent boy be out in the 
evenin', good or bad ; for, whin the day's work 
was over, divil a one of uz dar to go to meet a 
frind over a glass, or a girl at the dance, but must 
go home, and shut ourselves up, and never budge, 
nor rise latch, nor dhraw boult until the morning 
kem again. Well, to come to m}^ stor3^ *Twas 
afther nightfall, and wc wor sittin' round the fire, 

* Insurrection. 



Paddy the Piper. 187 

and the praties were boiling, and the noggins of 
butthermilk was standin' ready for our suppers, 
whin a knock kem to the door. 

" Whist ! " sa3^s my father, *' here's the sojers 
come upon us now," says he. ** Bad luck to them, 
the villians, I'm afeerd they seen a glimmer of 
the fire through the crack in the door," sa3^s he. 

" No," says my mother; ** for I'm afther hang- 
in' an ould sack and my new petticoat agin it, a 
while ago." 

" Well, whistht, anyhow," says my father, '' for 
there's a knock agin." And Ave all held our 
tongues till another thump kem to the door. 

" Oh ! it's a folly to purtind any more," sa3^s my 
father, '' thej^'re too cute to be put off that a' 
way," says he. '' Go, Shamus," says he to me, 
" and see who's in it." 

*' How can I see who's in it, in the dark ? " 
says I. 

''Well," says he, "light the candle, thin, and 
see who's in it, but don't open the door for your 
life, barrin' they brake it in," says he, " exceptin* 
to the sojers, and spake thim fair, if it's thim." 

So with that I wint to the door, and there was 
another knock. 

"Who's there?" says I. 

" It's me," says he. 

** Who are you ? " says I. 

'*' A frind," says he. 

" Baithershin r says I. " Who are you at all ?" 

" Arrah ! don't you know me ? " says he. 



1 88 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

** Divil a taste/' says I. 

'' Shure I'm Paddy the Piper," says he. 

"■ Oh ! thunder-an'-turf," says I. '' Is it you, 
Paddy, that's in it ? " 

" Sorra one else," says he. 

'' And what brought you at this hour?" says I. 

'' By gar," says he, " I didn't like goin' the 
roun' by the road," says he, " and so I keni the 
short cut, and that's what delayed me," says he. 

^'Oh! bloody wars!" says I, *' Paddy, I 
wouldn't be in your shoes for the king's ransom," 
says I ; *' for you know it's a hangin' matther to be 
cotched out these times," said I. 

" Sur, I know that," says he, " God help me ! 
and that's what I kem to you for," says he. '' And 
let me in for ould acquaintance' sake," says poor 
Paddy. 

*' Oh ! by this and that," sa3^s I, "■ I darn't open 
the door for the wide world, and sure you know 
it; and troth, if the Husshians or the Yeos* 
ketches you," says I, " they'll murthur you, as 
sure as your name's Paddy." 

''Many thanks to you," saj-s he, "''for your 
good intintions; but, plaze the pigs, I hope it's 
not the likes o' that is in store for me, anyhow." 

** Faix, then," says I, ^' you'd betther lose no 
time in hidin' yourself," says I ; '' for, throth, I 
tell you it's a short thrial and a long rope the 
Husshians would be afther givin' you, for they've 
no justice, and less marcy, the villians ! " 

* Yeomen. 



Paddy the Piper. 189 

" Faith, thill, more's the raison you should let 
me in, Shamus," says poor Paddy. 

'* It's a folly to talk," says I ; " I darn't open the 
door." 

*' Oh ! thin, millia murthcr!" says Paddy. 
** What'U become of me at all at all ? " says he. 

*' Go afif into the shed," says I, *' behin' the 
house, where the cow is, and there's an illigant lock 
o' straw that you may go sleep in," says I; "and 
a fine bed it ud be for a lord, let alone a piper." 

So off Paddy set to hide in the shed, and, troth, 
it wint to our hearts to refuse him and turn him 
away from the door, more by token when the 
praties was ready, for sure the bit and the sup is 
ahva3^s welkim to the poor traveller. Well, w^e 
all wint to bed, and Paddy hid himself in the 
cow-house ; and now I must tell you how it was 
with Paddy. 

You see, afthcr sleeping- for some time, Paddy 
wakened up, thinkin' it was mornin', but it wasn't 
mornin' at all, but only the light o' the moon that 
desaved him ; but, at all events, he wanted to be 
stirrin' airly, bekasc he was going off to the town 
hard by, it bein' fair-day, to pick up a few ha'- 
pence with his pipes, for the divil a betther piper 
was in all the counthry round nor Paddy ; and 
every one gave it up to Paddy that he was illi- 
gant an the pipes, and played " Jinny bang'd the 
Weaver" beyant tellin', and the '' Hare in the 
Corn" that you'd think the very dogs was in it,, 
and the horsemen ridin' like mad. 



190 II(-ilf J fours 10 it J I Iris J I AiitJurs. 

Well, as I was savin', he set off to go to the 
fair, and he went meandherin' along through the 
fields, but he didn't go far, antil, climbin' up 
through a hedge, when he was comin' out at 
t'other side, his head keni plump agin somethin' 
that made the fire flash out iv o' his eyes. So 
with that he looks up, and what do 3'ou think it 
was. Lord be merciful to uz ! but a corpse hang- 
in' out of a branch of a three? 

" Oh ! the top o' the mornin' to you, sir,'' 
says Paddy ; '* and is that the way with you, 
ni}- poor fellow? Throth you took a start out 
o' me," sa3's poor Paddy. And 'twas true for 
him, for it would make the heart of a stouter 
man nor Paddy jump to see the like, and to think 
of a Christian crathur being hanged up all as one 
as a dos:. 

Now, 'twas the rebels that hanged this chap ; 
because, you see, the corpse had got clothes an 
him, and that's the raison that one might know it 
was the rebels — by raison that the Husshians and 
the Orangemen never hanged anybody with good 
clothes an him, but onl}^ the poor and definceless 
crathurs like uz ; so, as I said before, Paddy 
knew well it was the boys that done it. ** And," saj^s 
Paddy, eyein' the corpse, " by ni}^ sowl, thin, but 
you have a beautiful pair o' boots an you," says 
he, "and it's what I am thinkin' you w^on't have 
any great use for thim no more ; and sure it's a 
shame to see the likes o' me," says he, " the best 
piper in the sivin counties, to be trampin' wid a 



Paddy the Piper. 191 

pair of ould brogues not worth three tranccns, and 
a corpse with such an iligant pair o' boots that 
wants some one to wear thim." So. with that, 
Padd}^ lays hould of him b}^ the boots, and began 
a puUin' at thim, but they were mighty stiff; and, 
whether it was b}^ raison of their bin' so tight, or 
the branch of the three a-giggin' up and down all 
as one as a weighdee buckettee, an' not lettin 
Paddy cotch any right hoult o' thim, he could 
get no advantage o' thim at all ; and at last he gev 
X up, and was goin' away, when, lookin' behind 
him agin, the sight of the iligant fine boots was too 
much for him, and he turned back, determined to 
have the boots anyhow, by fair means or foul. 
And I'm loath to tell you now how he got them ; 
for, indeed, it was a dirty turn, and throth it was 
the only dirty turn I ever knew Paddy to be guil- 
ty civ ; and you see it was this a-way : 'pon my 
sowl, he pulled out a big knife, and, by the same 
token, it was a knife with a fine buck-handle, and a 
murtherin' big blade, that an uncle o' mine that 
was a gardener at the lord's made Paddy a prisint 
av ; and, more by token, it was not the first mis- 
chief that knife done ; for it cut love between thim 
that was the best of friends before ; and sure 'twas 
the wondher of every one that two knowledg- 
able men that ought to know betther would do 
the likes, and give and take sharp steel in friend- 
ship ; but Pm forgettin' — well, he outs with his 
knife, and what does he do but he cuts oft^'the legs 
of the corpse. *' And," i^^ys he, '' I can take off the 



192 Half Hours zciih Iiish Authors, 

boots at my convaynience." And throth it was, as I 
said before, a dirty turn. 

Well, sir, he tucked the legs under his arms, 
and at that minit the moon peeped out from be- 
hind a cloud. '' Oh ! is it there you are?" sa3^s he 
to the moon, for he was an impident chap ; and 
thin, seein' that he made a mistake, and that the 
moonlight deceived him that it was the airly 
darwn, as he conceived ; and bein' friken'd for fear 
himself might be cotched and trated like the poor 
corpse he was afther malthreating, \i Jie was found 
walking the counthry at that time — by gar, he 
turned about, and walked back agin to the cow- 
house, and hidin' the corpse's legs in the sthraw, 
Paddy went to sleep agin. But what do you 
think ? The devil a long Paddy was there antil the 
sojers came in airnest, and, by the powers, they 
carried off Paddy-^and faith it was only sarvin' 
him right for what he had done to the poor 
corpse. 

Well, whin the mornin' kem, my father says to 
me, " Go, Shamus," says he, " to the shed, and bid 
poor Paddy come in, and take share o' the praties ; 
for, I go bail, he's ready for his breakquest by this 
anyhow." 

Well, out I wint to the cow-house, and called 
out '' Paddy !" and, afther callin' three or four times 
and getting no answer, I wint in, and called agin, 
and divil an answer I got still. '' Blood-an-agers !" 
says 1, " Paddy, where are you at all at all ?" And 
so, castin' my eyes about the shed, I seen two feet 



Paddy the Piper. 193 

sticking out from undher the hape o' stliraw 
'* Musha ! thin," says I, '' bad luck to you, Paddj^, 
but you're fond of a warm corner, and may be 3^ou 
haven't made j^ourself as snug as a flay in a blan- 
ket? But I'll disturb )^our dhrames, I'm thinkin'," 
says I. And with that I laid hold of his heels (as I 
thought, God help me !), and, givin' a good pull to 
waken him, as I intinded, away I wint head over 
heels, and my brains was a'most knocked out agin 
the wall. 

Well, whin I recovered m3^self, there I was 
on the broad o' my back, and two things stickin' 
out o' my hands like a pair o' Husshian's horse- 
pist'ls, and I thought the sight id lave my eyes 
whin I seen they were two mortial legs. 

My jew'l ! I threw them down like a hot pra- 
tee, and, jumpin' up, I roared out millia murther. 
'* Oh ! you murtherin' villain," says I, shaking my 
fist at the cow. *' Oh ! you unnath'ral baste,'' says 
I, " you've ate poor Paddy, you thievin' cannibal. 
You're worse than a naygar," says I ; '' and, bad 
luck to you, how dainty you are, that nothin' 'id 
sarve you for your supper but the best piper in 
Ireland ! Weirasthrit ! weirasthrii ! What'll the 
whole counthry say to such a unnath'ral murther? 
And you lookin' as innocent there as a lamb, and 
atin* your hay as quiet as if nothin' happened." 
With that I run out— for throth I didn't like to be 
near her — and, goin' to the house, I tould them 
all about it. 

'* Arrah! be aisy," says my father. 



194 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Attthors. 

'* Bad luck to the lie I tell 3^ou," says I. 

" Is it ate Paddy ?" says they. 

*' Divil a doubt of it," sa3^s I. 

'' Are you sure, Shamus?" says my mother. 

'' I wish 1 was as sure of a new pairo' brogues," 
sa3^s I. *' Bad luck to the bit she has left iv him 
but his two legs." 

*'And do you tell me she ate the pipes, too?" 
says my father. 

" By gor, I b'lieve so," sa^^s I. 

*' Oh ! the divil fly away wid her," says he. 
" What a cruel taste she has for music !" 

** Arrah !" says mother, '' don't be cursin' the 
cow that gives milk to the childer." 

" Yis, I will," says my father. " Why shouldn't 
I curse sich an unnath'ral baste ?' 

'* You oughtn't to curse any livin' thing that's 
under your roof," says my mother. 

'' By my soul, thin," says my father, '* she sha'n't 
be undher my roof any more ; for I'll sind her to 
the fair this minit," sa^'S he, ** and sell her for what- 
ever she'll bring. Go aff," says he, *' Shamus, the 
minit you've ate your breakquest, and dhrive her 
to the fair." 

" Throth I don't like to dhrive her," says I. 

*' Arrah ! don't be makin' a gommach of your- 
self," says he. 

'' Faith, I don't," says I. 

*' Well, like or no like," says he, " you must dhrive 
her." 



Paddy the Piper. 195 

" Sure, father," says I, *' you could take more care 
iv her yourself." 

" That's mighty good," says he, ^' to keep a dog 
and bark myself" — and, faith, I rec'llected the say- 
in' from that hour — '' let me have no more words 
about it," says he, " but be afF with you." 

So afif I wint, and it's no lie I'm tellin' when 
I say it was sore agin my will I had anything to 
do with such a villain of a baste. But, howsom- 
ever, I cut a brave long whattle, that I might 
drive the man-ather iv a thief, as she was, without 
bein' near her at all at all. 

Well, away we Avint along the road, and mighty 
throng it was with the boys and the girls — and, in 
short, all sorts, rich and poor, high and low, 
crowdin' to the fair. 

"" God save you !" says one to me. 

*' God save you, kindly !" says I. 

*' That's a fine baste you're dhrivin*,'' says he. 

*' Throth she is," says I, though God knows it 
wint agin my heart to say a good word for the 
likes of her. 

'' It's to the fair you're goin', I suppose," says he, 
** with the baste?" (He was a snug-lookin' farmer, 
ridin' a purty little gray hack.) 

" Faith, thin, you're right enough," says I. *' It's 
to the fair I'm goin'." 

"■ What do 3^ou expec' for her ?" says he. 
■' " Faith, thin, myself doesn't know," says I — and 
that was thrue enough, you see, bekase I was be- 
wildered like about the baste entirely. 



ig6 Half Hours with Irish Attthors. 

" Och !" says I, not likin' to let him suspict there 
was any thing wrong wid her — *' och !" says 1, in a 
careless sort of a way, '* sure no one can tell what 
a baste'U bring antil they come to the fair," says 
I, *' and see what price is goin'." 

*' Indeed, that's nath'ral enough," says he. " But 
if you wor bid a fair price before you come to the 
fair, sure you might as well take it," says he. 

*' Oh ! I've no objection in life," says I. 

" Well, thin, what'U you ax for her ? " says he. 

*' Why, thin, I wouldn't like to be onraysona- 
ble," says I (for the thruth was, you know, I 
wanted to get rid iv her), ''and so I'll take four 
pounds for her," sa3'S I, " and no less.' 

" No less ! " says he. 

" Why, sure, that's chape enough," says I. 

''Troth it is," says he; "and I'm thinkin it's 
too chape it is," says he ; " for, if there wasn't 
somethin' the matter, it's not for that you'd be 
sellin' the fine milch cow as she is to all appear- 
ance." 

" Indeed, thin," says I, " upon my conscience, 
she is a fine milch cow." 

" May be," says he, " she's gone off her milk, 
in regard that she doesn't feed well ? " 

" Och ! by this and that," says I, " in regard of 
feedin* there's not the likes of her in Ireland ; so 
make your mind aisy, and, if you like her for the 
money, you may have her." 

" Why, indeed, I'm not in a hurr}^" says he, 
" and I'll wait to see how they'll go in the fair." 



Paddy the Piper. 197 

" With all my heart," says I, purtending to be 
no ways consarned ; but, in throth, I began to be 
afeerd that the people was seein' somethin* un- 
nath'ral about her, and that we'd never get rid of 
her at all at all. At last we kern to the fair, and 
a great sight o' people was in it; throth you'd 
think the whole world was there, let alone the 
standin's o' gingerbread, and iligant ribbins, and 
makin's o' beautiful gownds, and pitch-and-toss, 
and merry-go-rouns, and tints with the best av 
drink in them, and the fiddles playin' up t' encour- 
age the boys and girls; but I never minded them 
at all, but determint to sell the thieven' rogue av 
a cow afore I'd mind any divarshin in life ; so an 
I dhriv her, into the thick av the fair, when all of 
a suddint, as I kem to the door av a tint, up 
struck the pipes to the tune av '* Tatterin' Jack 
Welsh," and, my jew'l ! in a minit, the cow cocked 
her ears, and was makin' a dart at the tint. 

"■ O murther !" says I to the boys standin' by, 
** hould her!" says I, "houldher! She ate one 
piper already, the vagabone, and, bad luck to 
her, she wants another now." 

'' Is it a cow for to ate a piper? " says one of 
them. 

'* Divil a word o' lie in it, for I seen his corpse 
myself, and nothin' left but the two legs," says I. 
•' And it's folly to be strivin' to hide it, for I see 
she'll never lave it aff, as poor Paddy Grogan 
knows to his cost, the Lord be merciful to him ! " 

" Who's that takin' my name in vain ? " says "a 



198 Half Hours ivitli Irish Authors, 

voice ill the crowd ; and, with that, shovin' the 
throng a one side, who the devil should I see but 
Paddy Grogan to all appearance. 

*' Oh ! hould him, too ! " says I ; '' keep him aff 
me, for it's not himself at all, but his ghost," says 
I ; '' for he was kilt last night to my sartin know- 
ledge, every inch of him, all to his legs." 

Well, sir, with that, Paddy, for it was Paddy, 
as it kem out after, fell a-laughin' that you'd think 
his sides ud split, and, when he kem to himself, he 
ups and he tould us how it was, as I tould you 
already ; and the likes av the fun they made av 
me was bey ant tellin' for wrongfully misdoubtin' 
the poor cow, and layin' the blame iv atin a piper 
an her. So we all wint into the tint to have it 
explained, and, by gor, it took a full gallon o' 
sper'ts to explain it, and we dhrank health and 
long life to Padd}^ and the cow, and Paddy played 
that day beyant all tellin', and man}^ a one said 
the likes was never heerd before nor sence, even 
from Paddy himself; and av coorse the poor 
slandered cow was dhruv home agin, and many a 
quiet day she had wid us afther that ; and, whin 
she died, throth, my father had sitch a regard jfor 
the poor thing, that he had her skinned, and an 
iligant pair of breeches made out iv her hide, and 
it's in the family to this day ; and isn't it mighty 
remarkable it is, what Fm goin' to tell you now, 
but it's as thrue as Pm here, that, from that out, 
any one that has them breeches on, the minit a 
pair o' pipes sthrikes up they can't rest, but goes 



Paddy the Piper. 199 

jiggin' and jiggin' in their sate, and never stops as 
long as the pipes is playin' ; and there," said he, 
slapping the garment in question that covered 
his sinewy limb, with a spank of his brawny hand 
that might have startled nerves more tender than 
mine — *' there is the very breeches that's an me 
now, and a fine pair they are this minit." 



THE WHITE TROUT. 

A LEGEND OF CONG. 



Oh ! I would ask no happier bed 
Than the chill wave my love lies under ; 

Sweeter to rest together, dead, 
Far sweeter than to live asunder. 

— Lalla Rookh. 

THE next morning I proceeded alone to the 
cave, to witness the natural curiosity of its 
subterranean river, my interest in the visit being 
somewhat increased by the foregoing tale. Leav- 
ing my horse at the little village of Cong, I bent 
my Avay on foot through the fields, if you may ven- 
ture to give that name to the surface of this immedi- 
ate district of the county Mayo, which, presenting 
large flat masses of limestone, intersected by 
patches of verdure, gives one the idea much more 
of a burial-ground covered with monumental slabs, 
than a formation of nature. Yet (I must make the 
remark en passanf) such is the richness of the pas- 
ture in these little verdant interstices that cattle 
are fattened upon it in a much shorter time than on 
a meadow of the most cultured aspect ; and though 
to the native of Leinster this land {\i wc may be 



The White Trout. 201 

pardoned a premeditated bull) would appear all 
stones^ the Mayo farmer knows it from experience 
to be a profitable tenure. Sometimes deep clefts 
occur between these laminas of limestone i-ock, 
which, closely overgrown with verdure, have not 
unfrequently occasioned serious accidents to man 
and beast ; and one of these chasms, of larger 
dimensions than usual, forms the entrance to the 
celebrated cave in. question. Very rude steps of 
unequal height, partly natural and partly artificial, 
lead the explorer of its quiet beauty, by an abrupt 
descent, to the bottom of the cave, which contains 
an enlightened area of some thirty or forty feet, 
whence a naturally vaulted passage opens, of the 
deepest gloom. The depth of the cave may be 
about equal to its width at the bottom ; the mouth 
is not more than twelve or fifteen feet across ; and 
pendent from its margin clusters of ivy and other 
parasite plants hang and cling in all the fantastic 
variety of natural festooning and tracery. It is a 
truly beautiful and poetical little spot, and par- 
ticularly interesting to the stranger, from being 
unlike anything else one has ever seen, and having 
none of the noisy and vulgar pretence of regular 
show places^ which calls upon you every moment 
to exclaim '' Prodigious !" 

An elderly and decent-looking woman had just 
filled her pitcher w^ith the deliciously cold 
and clear water of the subterranean river that 
flowed along its bed of small, smooth, and many- 
colored pebbles, as I arrived at the bottom ; and, 



202 half Hours with Irish Authors. 

perceiving at once that I was a stranger, she 
paused, partly, perhaps, with the pardonable pride 
of displaying her local knowledge, but more from 
the native peasant politeness of her country to be- 
come the temporary cicerone of the cave. She 
spoke some words of Irish, and hurried forth on 
her errand a very handsome and active boy, of 
whom she informed me she was the great-grand- 
mother. • 

'' Great-grandmother !' I repeated, in unfeign- 
ed astonishment. 

*' Yes, your honor," she answered, with evident 
pleasure sparkling in her eyes, which time had 
not yet deprived of their brightness, or' the soul- 
subduing influence of this selftsh world bereft of 
their kind-hearted expression. 

'-'■ You are the youngest woman I have ever seen," 
said I, '' to be a great-grandmother." 

" Troth I don't doubt you, sir," she answered. 

'' And you seem still in good health, and likely 
to live many a year yet," said I. 

'' With the help of God, sir," said she reverently. 

'' But," I added, ''-I perceive a great number of 
persons about here of extreme age. Now, how 
long generally do the people in this country live ?" 

*' Troth, sir," said she, with the figurative droll- 
ery of her country, *' we live here as long as we 
like." 

" Well, that is no inconsiderable privilege," said 
I ; '' but you nevertheless must have married 
very young?" 



The White Trout. 203 

** I was not much over sixteen, your honor, 
when I had my first child at my breast." 

" That was beginning early," said I. 

*'Thrue for you, sir; and, faith, Noreen (that's 
my daughter, sir) — Noreen herself lost no time 
either ; I suppose she thought she had as good a 
right as the mother before her — she was married 
at seventeen, and a likely couple herself and her 
husband was. So you see, sir, it was not long be- 
fore I was a granny. Well, to make the saying 
good, ' As the ould cock crows, the young bird 
chirrups,' and, faiks, the whole breed, seed, and 
generation tuk after the ould woman (that's my- 
self, sir); "and so, in coorse of time, I was not only 
a granny, but a ^r^/^-granny ; and, by the same 
token, here comes my darling Paudeen Bawn* 
with what I sent him for." 

Here the fine fellow I have spoken of, with his 
long, fair hair curling about his shoulders, de- 
scended into the cave, bearing some fagots of 
bogwood, a wisp of straw, and a lighted sod of turf. 

*' Now, your honor, it's what you'll see the 
pigeon-hole to advantage." 

" What pigeon-hole ?" said I. 

"• Here, where we are," she replied. 

" Why is it so called?" I inquired. 

'' Because, sir, the wild pigeons often builds in 
the bushes and the ivy that's round the mouth of 
the cave, and in here, too," said she, pointing into 
the gloomy depth of the interior. 

* Fair little Paddy. 



204 ^^^^f Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 

" Blow that turf, Paudeen." And Paudeen, with 
distended cheeks and compressed lips, forthwith 
poured a few vigorous blasts on the sod of turf, 
which soon flickered and blazed, while the kind 
old woman lighted her fagots of bogwood at the 
flame. 

" Now, sir, follow me," said my conductress. 

" I am sorry you have had so much trouble on 
my account," said I. 

" Oh ! no throuble in life, your honor, but the 
greatest of pleasure." And so saying, she proceed- 
ed into the cave, and I loUowed, carefully choosing 
my steps, by the help of her torch-light, along the 
slippery path of rock that overhung the river. 
When she had reached a point of some little eleva- 
tion, she held up her lighted pine branches, and, 
waving them to and fro, asked me could I see the 
top of the cave. 

The effect of her figure was very fine, illumined 
as it was, in the midst of utter darkness, by the 
red glare of the blazing fagots ; and, as she wound 
them round her head, and shook their flickerins: 
Sparks about, it required no extraordinary sketch 
of imagination to suppose her, with her ample 
cloak of drapery and a few straggling tresses of 
gray hair escaping from the folds of a rather 
Eastern head-dress, some sib^d about to com- 
mence an awful rite, and evoke her ministering 
spirits fron the dark void, or call some water- 
demon from the river which rushed unseen along, 
telling of its wild course by the turbulent dash ot 



The White Trout. 205 

its waters, which the reverberation of the cave 
rendered still more hollow. 

She shouted aloud, and the cavern-echoes an- 
swered to her summons. " Look !" said she ; and 
she lighted the wisp of straw, and flung it on the 
stream ; it floated rapidly away, blazing in wild 
undulations over the protruded surface of" the 
river, and at length suddenly disappeared alto- 
gether. The effect was most picturesque and 
startling ; it was even awful — I might almost say 
sublime. 

Her light being nearly expired, we retrace our 
steps, and, emerging from the gloom, stood beside 
the river, in the enlightened area I have described. 

" Now, sir," said my old woman, *' we must thry 
and see the white throut ; and you never seen a 
throut o' that color yet, I warrant." 

I assented to the truth of this. 

" They say it's a fairy throut, your honor, and 
tells mighty quare stories about it." 

*' What are they ?" I inquired. 

'* Throth it's myself doesn't know the half o' 
them — only partly ; but sthrive and see it before 
3^ou go, sir, for there's thim that says it isn't lucky 
to come to the cave, and lave it without seeing 
the white throut ; and, if you're a bachelor, and 
didn't get a peep at it, throth you'd never get 
married ; and sure that i'd be a marther."* 

^' Oh !" said I, *' I hope the fairies would not be so 
spiteful — " 

♦ A great pity. 



2o6 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

"Whist — whist!" said she looking fearfully 
around ; then knitting her brows, she gave me an 
admonitory look, and put her fmger on her lip, in 
token of silence, and then, coming sufficiently near 
me to make herself audible in a whisper, she said, 
** Never speak ill, your honor, of the good people, 
beyant all in sich a place as this ; for it's in the 
likes they al\va3^s keep; and one doesn't know 
who may be listenin'. God keep uz ! But look, 
sir, look !" — and she pointed to the stream — " there 
she is." 

''Who? What?" said I. 

" The throut, sir." 

I immediately perceived the fish in question, 
perfectly a trout in shape, but in color a creamy 
white, heading up the stream, and seeming to 
keep constantly within the region of the enlight- 
ened part of it. 

" There it is, in that very spot evermore," con- 
tinued my guide, " and never anywhere else." 

" The poor fish, I suppose, likes to swim in the 
light," said I. 

" Oh ! no, sir," said she, shaking her head signi- 
ficantly, " the people here has a mighty owld stor}*" 
about that throut." 

" Let me hear it, and you will oblige me." 

" Och ! it's only laughin' at me you'd be, and call 
me an owld fool, as the misthiss beyant in the big 
house often did afore Avhen she first kem among 
us ; but she knows the differ now." 

'' Indeed, I shall not laugh at your story," said I, 



The White Trout. 207 

" but, on the contrary, shall thank you very much 
for your tale." 

" Then sit down a minit, sir," said she, throwing 
her apron upon the rock, and pointing to the seat, 
"and* I'll tell you to the best of my knowledge." 
And, seating herself on an adjacent patch of ver- 
dure, she began her legend. 

*' There was wanst upon a time long ago a 
beautiful young lady that lived in a castle up by 
the lake beyant, and they say she was promised to 
the king's son, and they wor to be married ; when, 
all of a suddint, he was murthered, the crathur, 
( Lord help us!), and threwn into the lake abow,"^' 
and so, of coorse, he couldn't keep his promise to 
the fair lady — and more's the pity. 

"■ Well, the story goes that she went out iv her 
mind bekase av loosin' the king's son — for she was 
tinder-hearted, God help her! like the rest iv us 
— and pined away afther him, until at last no one 
about seen her, good or bad ; and the story wint 
that the fairies took her away. 

" Well, sir, in coorse o' time, the white throut, 
God bless it ! was seen in the sthrame beyont ; and 
sure the people didn't know what to think av the 
crathur, seein' as how a white throut was never 
heerd av afore nor sence : and years upon years 
the throut was there, just where you seen it this 
blessed minit, longer nor I can tell — ay, throth, and 
beyant the memory o' th' ouldest in the village. 

" At last the people began to think it must be a 

♦Above. 



208 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

fairy — for what else could it be? — and no hurt nor 
harm was iver put on the white throut, antil some 
wicked sinners of sojers kem to these parts, and 
laughed at all the people, and gibed and jeered 
them for thinkin* o' the likes ; and one o' them 
in partic'lar (bad luck to him ! — God forgi* me 
for sayin' it ! ) swore he'd catch the throut, and 
ate it for his dinner — the blackguard ! 

" Well, what would you think o' the villany of 
the sojer? Sure enough he cotch the throut, and 
away wid him home, and puts an the fryin'-pan, 
and into it he pitches the purty little thing. The 
throut squeeled all as one as a Christian crather, 
and, my dear, you'd think the sojer id split his 
sides laughin' — for he was a harden'd villain — and, 
when he thought one side was done, he turns it 
over to fry the other ; and what would you think, 
but the divil a taste of a burn was an it at all at all, 
and sure the sojer thought it was a qiiare throut 
that couldn't be briled ; ' but,' says he, ' I'll give it 
another turn by-and-by, little thinkin' what was 
in store for him, the haythen. 

'' Well, when he thought that side was done, he 
turns it again, and, lo and behould you, the divil 
a taste more done that side was nor the other. 
* Bad luck to me,' says the sojer, * but that bates 
the world,' says he ; * but I'll thry you agin, my 
darlint,' says he, ' as cunnin' as you think yourself.' 
And so, with that, he turns it over and over; but 
the divil a sign av the fire w^as an the purty throut. 
'* Well,' says the desperate villain — (for sure, sir, 



The White Trout. 209 

he was a desperate villain entirely ; he might know 
he Avas doing a wrong thing, seein' that all his en- 
dayvors was no good) — ' well/ says he, '■ my jolly 
little throut, may be you're fried enough, though 
you don't seem over well dressed ; but you may 
be better than you look, like a singed cat, and a 
titbit, afther all,' says he. And, with that, he ups 
with his knife and fork to taste apiece o' the throut; 
but, my jew'l ! the minit he put his knife into the 
fish there was a murtherin' screech, that you'd 
think the life id lave you if you heerd it, and away 
jumps the throut out av the fryin'-pan into the 
middle o' the flure; and an the spot where it fell 
up riz a lovely lad}^ — the beautifullest young 
crathur that eyes ever seen, dressed in white, 
with a band o* goold in her hair, and a sthrame o' 
blood runnin' down her arm. 

'' ' Look where you cut me, you villain,' says she, 
and she held out her arm to him ; and, my dear, 
he thought the sight id lave his eyes. 

'' ' Couldn't you lave me cool and comfortable in 
the river where you snared me, and not disturb 
me in my duty ?' says she. 

" Well, he thrimbled like a dog in a wet sack, 
and at last he stammered out somethin', and beg- 
ged for his life, and ax'd her ladyship's pardin, and 
said he didn't know she was an dut}^ or he was 
too good a soger not to know betther nor to med- 
dle wid her. 

'' ' I zvas on duty, then,' sa3^s the lady ; ' I was 
watchin' for my thrue love that is comin' by 



2IO Half Hours with Irish Authors, 

wather to me,' sa3^s she; 'an' if he comes while I 
am away, an' that I miss iv him, I'll turn you into 
a pinkeen,"^ and I'll hunt you up and down for 
evermore, while grass grows or wather runs.' 

" Well, the sojer thought the life id lave him at 
the thoughts iv his bein' turned into a pinkeen, and 
begged for marcy ; and with that says the lady, 
* Renounce your evil coorses,' says she, 'you 
villain, or you'll repint it too late; be a good 
man for the futher, and go to your dutyf reg'lar. 
And now,' says she, 'take me back, and put me 
into the river agin where you found me." 

" ' Oh ! my lad}^' sa3's the sojer, * how could I 
have the heart to drownd a beautiful lady like 
you ?' 

" But before he could say another word, the 
lady was vanished, and there he saw the little 
throut an the ground. Well, he put it an a clane 
plate, and away he run for the bare life, for fear 
her lover would come while she w^as away ; and 
he run and he run ever till he came to the cave 
agin, and threw the throut into the river. The 
minit he did, the wather \vas as red as blood 
for a little while, by rayson av the cut, I sup- 
pose, until the sthrame washed the stain away ; 
and to this day there's a little red mark an the 
throut's side, where it was cut.:}: 

" Well, sir, from that day out the sojer was an 

* stickleback. 

+ The Irish peasant calls his attendance at the confessicmal " going to his 
duty." 

X The fish has reall}' a red spot on its side. 



The While Trout. 21 1 

althered man, and reformed his ways, and wint to 
his duty reg'lar and fasted three times a week — 
though it was never fish he tuk an fastin' days, for, 
afther the fright he got, fish id never rest an his 
stomach, God bless us ! savin* your presence. 
But, anyhow, he was an althered man, as 1 said 
before ; and in coorse o' time he left the army, and 
turned hermit at last; and they say he used to 
pray evermore for the sowl of the white throut,'' 



William Carleton, 



THE DONAGIL 



CARNMORE, one of those small villages that 
are to be found in the outskirts of many pa- 
rishes in Ireland, whose distinct boundaries are 
lost in the contiguous mountain-wastes, was situ- 
ated at the foot of a deep gorge or pass, overhung 
by two bleak hills, from the naked sides of wdiich 
the storm swept over it, without discomposing 
the peaceful little nook of cabins that stood below. 

* In reference to the precious reliquary mentioned in the following true 
tale, the learned George Petrie wrote in the i8th vol. of the Transactions of 
the Royal Irish Academy: 

" On these evidences— and more might probably be procured if time had 
allowed— we may, I think, with tolerable certainty, rest the following con- 
clusions: 

''i. That the Domnach is the identical reliquary given by St. Patrick to 
MacCarthen. 

"2. As the form of the cumdach indicates that it was intended to receive a 
book, and as the relics are all attached fo the outer and the least ancient 
cover, it is manifest that the use of the box as a reliquary was not its original 
intention. The natural inference, therefore, is that it contained a manuscript 
which had belonged to St. Patrick ; and, as a manuscript copy of the Gospels, 
apparently of that early age, is found within it, there is every reason to be- 
lieve it to be that identical one for which the box was originally made, and 
which the Irish apostle probably brought with him on his mission into this 
country. It is, indeed, not merely possible, but even probable, that the ex- 
istence of this manuscript was unknown to the monkish biographers of St. 
Patrick and St. MacCarthen, who speak of the box as a scrinium^ or reliquary, 
only. The outer cover was evidently not made to open ; and some, at least, 
of the relics attached to it were not introduced into Ireland before the twelfth 
century. It will be remembered, also, that no superstition was and is more 
common, in connection with the ancient cumdachs, than the dread of their 
being OF-aed." 



2i6 Half Hours zvith Irish AiitJiors. 

About a furlong further down were two or three 
farm-houses, inhabited by a family named Cas- 
sidy, men of simple, inoffensive manners and con- 
siderable wealth. They were, however, acute 
and wise in their generation ; intelligent cattle- 
dealers, on whom it would have been a matter of 
some difficulty to impose an unsound horse, or a 
cow older than it was intimated by her horn- 
rings, even when conscientiously dressed up for 
sale by the ingenious aid of the file or burning- 
iron. Between their houses and the hamlet rose 
a conical pile of rocks, loosely heaped together, 
from which the place took it's name of Carnmore. 
About three years before the time of this stor}^, 
there came two men with their families to reside 
in the upper village, and the house which they 
chose as a residence was one at some distance 
from those which composed the little group we 
have just been describing. They said their name 
was Meehan, although the general report went 
that this was not true, that their name was an as- 
sumed one, and that some dark mystery which 
none could penetrate shrouded their history and 
character. They were certainly remarkable men. 
The elder, named Anthony, was a dark, black- 
browed person, stern in his manner, and atro- 
ciously cruel in his disposition. His form was 
herculean, his bones strong and hard as iron, and 
his sinews stood out in undeniable evidence of a 
life hitherto spent in severe toil and exertion, to 
bear which he appeared to an amazing degree 



TJie Donagh. 217 

capable. His brother Denis was a small man, 
less savage and daring- in his character, and con- 
sequently more vacillating and cautious than 
Anthony ; for the points in which he resembled 
him were superinduced upon his natural disposi- 
tion by the close connection that subsisted be- 
tween them, and b}^ the identity of their former 
pursuits in life, which, beyond doubt, had been 
such as could not bear investigation. 

The old proverb of Birds of a feather flock to- 
gether" is certainly a true one, and in this case it 
was once more verified. Before the arrival of 
these men in the village, there had been two or 
three bad characters in the neighborhood, whose 
delinquencies were pretty well known. With 
these persons, the strangers, by that sympathy 
which assimilates with congenial good or evil, 
soon became acquainted ; and although their in- 
timacy was as secret and cautious as possible, 
still it had been observed, and was known ; for 
they had frequently been seen skulking together 
at daybreak or in the dusk of evening. 

It is unnecessary to say that Meehan and his 
brother did not mingle much in the society of 
Carnmore. In fact, the villagers and the}^ mu- 
tually avoided each other. A mere return of the 
common phrases of salutation was generally the 
most that passed between them ; they never en- 
tered into that familiarity which leads to mutual 
intercourse, and justifies one neighbor in freely 
entering the cabin of another, to spend a winter's 



2i8 Half Hours zuith Irish AutJiors. 

night or a summer's evening in amusing conver- 
sation. Few had ever been in the house of the 
Ivleehans since it became theirs ; nor were the 
means of their subsistence known. They led an 
idle life, had no scarcity of food, were decently 
clothed, and never wanted money — circumstan- 
ces which occasioned no small degree of conjec- 
ture in Carnmore and its vicinity. 

Some said they lived by theft ; others that they 
were coiners; and there were many who imag- 
ined, from the diabolical countenance of the 
elder brother,^ that he had sold himself to the 
devil, Avho, they affirmed, set his mark upon him, 
and was his paymaster. Upon this hypothesis, 
several were ready to prove that he had neither 
breath nor shadow ; they had seen him, they said, 
standing under a hedge-row of elder, that unholy 
tree which furnished wood for the ci"oss, and on 
which Judas hanged himself; yet, although it was 
noonday in the month of Jul}^ his person threw 
out no shadow. Worthy souls! because the man' 
stood in the shade at the time. But with these 
simple explanations superstition had nothing to 
do, although we are bound in justice to the reve- 
rend old lady to affirm that she v/as kept exceed- 
ingly busy in Carnmore. If a man had a sick 
cow, she was elf-shot ; if his chi-ld became con- 
sumptive, it had been overlooked, or received a 
blast from the fairies ; if the whooping-cough w^as 
rife, all the afflicted children were put three times 
under an ass ; or^ when they happened to have the 



The DonagJi, 219 

" mumps," Avere led, before sunrise, to a south- 
running stream, with a halter hanging about their 
necks, under an obUgation of silence during the 
ceremony. In short, there could not possibl}- be 
a more superstitious spot than that which these 
men of mystery had selected for their residence. 
Another circumstance which caused the people 
to look upon them with additional dread was their 
neglect of Mass on Sundays and holidays, though 
they avowed themselves Roman Catholics. They 
did not, it is true, join in the dances, drinking- 
matches, foot-ball, and other sports with which 
the Carnmore folk celebrated the Lord's day ; 
but they scrupled not, on the other hand, to 
mend their garden ditch, or mould a row of cab- 
bages on the Sabbath — a circumstance for which 
two or three of the Carnmore boys were one Sun- 
day evening, when tips}^ w^ell-nigh chastising 
them. Their usual manner, however, of spending 
that day was by sauntering lazily about the fields, 
or stretching themselves supinely on the sunny 
side of the hedges, their arms folded on their 
bosoms, and their hats Ij^ing over their faces to 
keep off the sun. 

In the meantime, loss of property was becom- 
ing quite common in the neighborhood. Sheep 
w^ere stolen from the farmers, and cows and 
horses from the more extensive graziers in the 
parish. The complaints against the authors of 
these depredations were loud 'and incessant; 
watches were set, combinations for mutual secur- 



220 Half Hours zuitJi Irish AutJiors. 

ity formed, and subscriptions to a considerable 
amount entered into, with a hope of being able, 
by the temptation of a large reward, to work 
upon the weakness or cupidity of some accom- 
plice to betray the gang of villains who infested 
the neighborhood. All, however, was in vain ; 
every week brought some new act of plunder to 
light, perpetrated upon such unsuspecting per- 
sons as had hitherto escaped the notice of the 
robbers ; but no trace could be discovered of the 
perpetrators. Although theft had from time to 
time been committed upon a small scale before the 
arrival of the Meehans in the village, yet it was 
undeniable that since that period the instances 
not only multiplied, but became of a more daring 
and extensive description. They arose in a 
gradual scale, from the hen-roost to the stable ; 
and with such ability were they planned and exe- 
cuted that the people, who in every instance 
identified INIeehan and his brother with them, be- 
gan to believe and hint that, in consequence of 
their compact with the devil, they had power to 
render themselves invisible. Common fame, who 
can best treat such subjects, took up this, and 
never laid it aside until, by narrating several ex- 
ploits which Meehan the elder is said to have per- 
formed in other parts of the kingdom, she wound 
it up by roundly "informing the Carnmorians 
that, having been once taken prisoner for mur- 
der, he was caught by thcleg when half through 
a hedge, but that, being most wickedly deter- 



TJie Doriagh. 221 

mined to save his neck, he left the leg with the 
officer who took him, shouting- out that it was a 
new species of leg-bail ; and yet he moved away 
with surprising speed, upon two of as good legs 
as an}^ man in his majesty's dominions might wish 
to walk off upon, from the insinuating advances 
of a bailiff or a constable. 

The family of the Meehans consisted of their 
wives and three children, two boys and a girl; 
the former were the offspring of the younger 
brother, and the latter of Anthony. It has been 
observed, with truth and justice, that there is no 
man, how hardened and diabolical soever in his 
natural temper, who does not exhibit to some 
particular object a peculiar species of affection. 
Such a man was Anthony Meehan. That sullen 
hatred which he bore to human society, and that 
inherent depravity of heart which left the trail of 
vice and crime upon his footsteps, were flung off 
his character when he addressed his daughter 
Annie. To him her voice was like music ; to her 
he was not the reckless villain, treacherous and 
cruel, which the helpless and unsuspecting found 
him, but a parent kind and indulgent as ever 
pressed an only and beloved daughter to his 
bosom. Annie was handsome ; had she been 
born and educated in an elevated rank in society, 
she would have been softened by the polish and 
luxury of life into perfect beauty ; she was, how- 
ever, utterly without education. As Annie ex- 
perienced from her father no unnatural cruelty, 



222 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

no harshness, nor even indifference, she conse- 
quently loved him in return ; for she knew that 
tenderness from such a man was a proof of paren- 
tal love rarel}'- to be found in life. Perhaps she 
loved not her father the less on perceiving that 
he was proscribed by the world — a circumstance 
which might also have enhanced in his eyes the 
affection she bore him. When Meehan came to 
Carnmore, she was sixteen ; and, as that was 
three years before the incident occurred on which 
we have founded this narrative, the reader may 
now suppose her to be about nineteen ; an inter- 
esting country girl as to person, but with a mind 
completely neglected, yet remarkable for an un- 
common stock of good-nature and credulity. 

About the hour of eleven o'clock one winter's 
night in the beginning of December, INIeehan and 
his brother sat moodily at their hearth. The fire 
was of peat which had recently been put down, 
and from between the turf the ruddy blaze was 
shooting out in those little tongues and gusts of 
sober light which throw around the rural hearth 
one of those charms which make up the felicity of 
domestic life. The night was stormy, and the 
wind moaned and howled along the dark hills be- 
neath which the cottage stood. Every object in 
the house was shrouded in a mellow shade which 
afforded to the eye no clear outline, except around 
the hearth alone, where the light brightened into 
a golden hue, giving the idea of calmness and 
peace. Anthony Meehan sat on one side of it, 



The Donagh. 223 

and his daughter opposite him knitting ; before 
the fire sat Denis, drawing shapes in the ashes for 
his own amusement. 

'■'■ Bless me ! " said he, '' how sthrange it is !" 

'•'■ What is ? " inquired Anthon}^ in his deep and 
grating tones. 

^' Wh}^, thin, it is sthrange!" continued the 
other, who, despite of the severity of his brother, 
was remarkably superstitious. '■'' A coffin I made 
in the ashes three times runnin' ! Isn't it very 
quare, Annie? " he added, addressing the niece. 

'' Sthrange enough, of a sartinty," she replied, 
being unwilling to express before her father the 
alarm which the incident, slight as it was, created 
in her mind ; for she, like her uncle, was subject 
to such ridiculous influences. '^ How did it hap- 
pen, uncle ?" 

'' Wh}', thin, no way in life, Anne; only, as I 
was thryin' to make a shoe, it turned out a coffin 
on my hands. I thin smoothed the ashes, and 
began agin, an' sorra bit of it but was a coffin 
still. Well, say^s I, I'll give you another chance — 
here goes once more — an', as sure as gun's iron, 
it was a coffin the third time. Heaven be about 
us, it's odd enough !" 

" It would be little matther you were nailed 
dovv^n in a coffin," replied Anthony fiercely ; " the 
world would have little loss. What a pitiful, cow- 
ardl}^ rascal you are ! Afraid o' your own shad- 
ow afther the sun goes down, except Fin at your 
elbov/ ! Can't you dhrive all them palavers out o' 



224 Half Hours 7uith Irish Authors. 

your head? Didn't the sargint tell us an' prove 
to us the time we broke the guard-house an' took 
Frinch lave o' the ridgment for good that the 
whole o' that, an' more along wid it, is all priest- 
craft?" 

" I remimber he did, sure enough. I dunna where 
the same sargint is now, Tony. About no good, 
anyway, I'll be bail. Howsomever, in regard o* 
that, why doesn't yourself give up fastin' from the 
mate of a Friday?" 

" Do you want me to sthretch you on the 
hearth ?" replied the savage, whilst his eyes kind- 
led into fury, and his grim visage darkened into a 
Satanic expression. " I'll tache you to be puttin' 
me through my catechiz about atin' mate. I may 
manage that as I plase ; it comes at first-cost, any- 
how ; but no cross-questions to me about it, if 3'ou 
regard your health !' 

*' I must say for you," replied Denis reproach- 
fully, '' that you're a good warrant to put the 
health astray upon us of an odd start ; we're not 
come to this time o' day widout carryin' somethin* 
to remimber you by. For my own part, Tony, I 
don't like such tokens; an', moreover, I wish you 
had resaved a thrifle o' larnin', espishily in the 
writin' line ; for, whenever we have any difference, 
you're so ready to prove your opinion by settin' 
your mark upon me that I'd rather, fifty times 
over, you could write it with pen an' ink." 

** My father will give that up, uncle," said the 
niece; ''it's bad for anybody to be fightin', but 



TJie Donagh. 225 

worst of all for brothers that ought to live in 
peace and kindness. Won't you, father?" 

" May be I will, dear, some o' these days, on 
your account, Anne ; but you must get this 
creature of an uncle of yours to let me alone, an' 
not be aggravatin' me with his folly. As for your 
mother, she's worse ; her tongue's sharp enough 
to skin a flint, and a batin* a day has little effect 
on her." 

Anne sighed, for she knew how low an irreli- 
gious life, and the infamous society with which, as 
her father's wife, her mother was compelled to 
mingle, had degraded her. 

" Well, but, father, you don't set her a good 
example yourself," said Anne; ''and, if she 
scoulds and drinks iiow^ you know she was a 
different woman when you got her. You allow 
this yourself; and the crathur, the dhrunkest 
time she is, doesn't she cry bittherly, remimberin 
what ^Q, has been? Instead of one batin' a day, 
father, thry no batin' a day, an' may be it 'ill turn 
out betther than thumpin' an' smashin' her as you 
do." 

** Why, thin, there's truth an' sinse in what the 
girl says, Tony," observed Denis. 

'' Come," replied Anthony, '' whatever she may 
say, I'll suffer none of your interference. Go an' 
get us the black bottle from XkiQ place ; it'll soon 
be time to move. I hope they won't stay too 
long." 

Denis obeyed this command with great readi 



226 Hcilf Hours zvith Irish Authors. 

ness, for Avhiskey in some degree blunted the 
fierce passions of his brother, and deadened 
his cruelty ; or rather diverted it from minor 
objects to those which occurred in the lawless 
perpetration of his villany. 

The bottle was got, and in the meantime the 
fire blazed up brightly ; the storm without, how- 
ever, did not abate, nor did Meehan and his 
brother wish that it should. As the elder of 
them took the glass from the hands of the other, 
an air of savage pleasure blazed in his eyes, on 
reflecting that the tempest of the night was favor- 
able to the execution of the villanous deed on 
which they were bent. 

'' More power to you !" said Anthony, impious- 
ly personifying the storm. *' Sure that's o?ie proof 
that God doesn't throuble his head about Avhat we 
do, or we would not get such a murdherin' fine 
night as is in it, anyhow. That's it! blow an' 
tundher away, an' keep yourself an' vis as black 
as hell, sooner than we should fail in what we in- 
tend ! Anne, your health, acushla. Yours, Dinny ! 
If you keep your tongue off o' me, I'll neither make 
nor meddle in regard o' the batin' o' you." 

"■ I hope you'll stick to that, anyhow," replied 
Denis; ''for my part I'm sick and sore o' you 
every day in the year. Many another man would 
put salt wather between himself and yourself, 
sooner nor become a battin'-stone for you, as I 
have been. Few would bear it when they could 
mend themselves." 



ihe Donagh. 227 

" What's that you say?" replied Anthony, sud- 
denly laying down his glass, catching his brother 
by the collar, and looking him with a murderous 
scowl in the face. " Is it thrachery you hint at, 
eh ? Sarpent, is it thrachery you mane ?" And, as 
he spoke, he compressed Denis's neck between 
his powerful hands until the other was black in 
the face. 

Anne flew to her uncle's assistance, and with 
much difficulty succeeded in rescuing him from 
the deadly grip of her father, who exclaimed, as 
he loosed his hold, '' You may thank the girl, or 
3'ou'd not spake nor dare to spake about crossin' 
the salt wather or layin* me in a desateful way 
agin. If I ever suspect that a thought of thrach- 
ery comes into your heart, I'll do for you ; and 
you may carr}^ your story to the world I'll send 
you to." 

'' Father, dear, why are you so suspicious of my 
uncle?" said Anne; ''sure he's a longtime livin' 
with you, an* goin' step for step in all the danger 
you meet with. If he had a mind to turn out a Judas 
agin you, he might a done it long agone ; not to 
mintion the throuble it would bring on his own 
head, seen' he's as deep in everything as you are/* 

'' If that's all that's throubling you,** replied 
Denis, trembling, ''you may make yourself asy on 
the head of it ; but well I know 'tisn't that that's 
on your mind ; 'tis your own conscience ; but sure 
it's not fair nor rasonable for you to vent your 
evil thoughts on me !" 



228 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 

"Well, he won't," said Anne; ''he'll quit it; his 
mind's throubled ; an', dear knows, it's no wondher 
it should. Och ! I'd give the world wide that his 
conscience was lightened of the load that's upon 
it! My mother's lameness is nothin'; but the 
child, poor thing ! An' it was only widin three 
days of her lyin'-in. Och ! it was a cruel sthroke, 
father! An' when 1 seen its little innocent face 
dead, an' me widout a brother, 1 thought my 
heart Avould break, thinkin' upon who did it!" 
The tears fell in showers from her eyes, as she 
added, '' Father, I don't want to vex you ; but 
I wish you to feel sorrow for that, at laste. Oh I if 
you'd bring the priest, an' give up sich coorses, 
father dear, how happy v/e'd be, an' how happy 
yourself 'ud be!" 

Conscience for a moment started from her sleep, 
and uttered a cry of guilt in his spirit; his face 
became ghastly ; and his eyes full of horror ; his 
lips quivered, and he was about to upbraid his 
daughter with more harshness than usual, when a 
low whistle, resembling that of a curlew, was 
heard at a chink of the door. In a moment he 
gulped down another glass of spirits, and was on 
his feet. " Go, Denis, an' get the arms," said he 
to his brother, '' while I let them in." 

On opening the door, three men entered, hav- 
ing their great-coats muffled about them, and 
their hats slouched. One of them named Kenny 
was a short villain, but of a thick-set, hairy frame. 
The other was known as the '' Big Mower," in con 



The DonagJi. 229 

sequence of his following that employment every 
season, and of his great skill in performing it. He 
had a deep-rooted objection against permitting 
the palm of his hand to be seen — a reluctance 
which common fame attributed to the fact of his 
having received on that part the impress of a hot 
iron, in the shape of the letter T, not forgetting 
to add that T was the hieroglyphic for Thief. 
The villain himself affirmed it was simply the 
mark of a cross, burned into it by a blessed friar, as 
a charm against St. Vitus's dance, to which he had 
once been subject. The people, however, were 
rather sceptical, not of the friar's power to cure 
that malady, but of the fact of his ever having 
moved a limb under it ; and they concluded with 
telling him, good-humoredly enough, that, not- 
withstanding the charm, he was destined to die 
" wid the threble of it in his toe." The third was 
a noted pedlar called Martin, Avho, under pretence 
of selling tape, pins, scissors, etc., was very useful 
in setting such premises as this virtuous fraternity 
might, without much risk, make a descent upon. 

'' I thought yez would outstay your time," said 
the elder Meehan, relapsing into his determined 
hardihood of character. " We're ready hours 
a-gone. Dick Rice gave me two curlew an' two 
patrich calls to-day. Now pass the glass among 
ye^, while Denny brings the arms. I know there's 
danger in this business, in regard of the Cassidys 
livin' so near us. If I see anybody afut, I'll use 
the citrleiv call ; an', if not, I'll whistle twice on 



230 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 

i\\Q patrich ^*one, an' 3'e ma}^ come an. The horse 
is worth eighty guineas, if he's worth a shillin' ; 
an' we'll make sixty of him ourselves." 

For some time they chatted about the plan in 
contemplation, and drank freely of the spirits, un- 
til at length the impatience of the elder Meehan 
at the delay of his brother became ungovernable. 
His voice deepened into tones of savage passion 
as he uttered a series of blasphemous curses 
against this unfortunate butt of his indignation and 
malignity. At length he rushed out furiously to 
know w^hy he did not return ; but, on reaching a 
.secret excavation in the mound against which the 
house was built, he found, to his utter dismay, 
that Denis had made his escape by an artificial 
passage scooped out of it to secure themselves a 
retreat in case of surprise or detection. It opened 
behind the house among a clump of blackthorn 
and brushwood, and was covered with green turf 
in such a manner as to escape the notice of all 
who were not acquainted with the secret. Mee- 
han's face on his return was worked up into an 
expression truly awful. 

" We're sould ! " said he. '' But stop, I'll tache 
the thraithur what revinge is ! " 

In a moment he awoke his brother's two sons, 
and dragged them by the neck, one in each hand, 
to the hearth. 

" Your villain of a father's off," said he, ** to be- 
tray us ; go an' folly him ; bring him back, an' 

* Partridge. 



The Donagh, 231 

he'll be safe from me ; but let him become a stag 
agin us, and, if I should hunt 3^ou both into the 
bowels of the airth, I'll send y^z to a short ac- 
count. I don't care that" — and he snapped his 
fino-ers — '' ha ! ha ! — no, I don't care that for the 
law ; I know how to dale with it when it comes ! 
An' what's the stuff about the other world but 
priestcraft and lies ?" 

'' May be," said the Big Mower, '' Denis is gone 
to get the fore way of us, an' to take the horse 
himself. Our best plan is to lose no time, at all 
events ; so let us hurry, for fraid the night might 
happen to clear up." 

" He ! '* said Meehan, '' he go alone ! No ; the 
miserable wretch is afeard of his own shadow. I 
only wondher he stuck to me so long ; but sure 
he Avouldn't, only I bate the courage in and the 
fear out of him. You're right, Brian," said he, 
upon reflection, '^ let us lose no time, but be off. 
Do ye mind?" he added to his nephews. "Did 
ye hear me ? If you see him, let him come back, 
an' all will be berrid ; but, if he doesn't, you know 
your fate ! " saying which, he and his accomplices 
departed amid the howling of the storm. 

The next morning, Carnmore, and indeed the 
whole parish, was in an uproar; a horse Avorth 
eighty guineas had been stolen in the most dar- 
ing manner from the Cassidys, and the hue-and- 
cry w^as up after the thief or thieves who took 
him. For several days the search was closely 
maintained, but without success; not the slight- 



232 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

est trace could be found of him or them. The 
Cassidys could very Avell bear to lose him ; but 
there were many struggling farmers, on whose 
property serious depradations had been commit- 
ted, who could not sustain their loss so easity. It 
was natural under these circumstances that sus- 
picion should attach to many persons, some of 
whom had but indifferent characters before, as 
well as to several who certainly had never de- 
served suspicion. When a fortnight or so had 
elapsed, and no circumstances transpired that 
might lead to discovery, the neighbors, including 
those who had principally suffered by the robber- 
ies, determined to assemble on a certain day at 
Cassidy's house, for the purpose of clearing them- 
selves, on oath, of the imputations thrown out 
against some of them, as accomplices in the thefts. 
In order, however, that the ceremony should be 
performed as solemnly as possible, they deter- 
mined to send for Father Farrell and Mr. Nichol- 
son, a magistrate, both of whom they requested 
to undertake the task of jointly presiding upon 
this occasion ; and, that the circumstance should 
have every publicity, it was announced from the 
altar by the priest, on the preceding Sabbath, 
and pubhshed on the church- gate in large legible 
characters, ingeniously printed with a pen by the 
village schoolmaster. 

In fact, the intended meeting, and the object of 
it, were already notorious ; and much conversa- 
tion was held upon its probable result and the 



The DonagJi. 233 

measures which might be taken against those who 
refused to swear. Of the latter description there 
was but one opinion, which was that their refusal 
in such a case would be tantamount to guilt. The 
innocent were anxious to vindicate themselves 
from suspicion ; and, as the suspected did not 
amount to more than a dozen, of course the whole 
body of the people, including the thieves them- 
selves, who applauded it as loudly as the others, 
all expressed their satisfaction at the measures 
about to be adopted. A day was therefore ap- 
pointed, on which the inhabitants of the neighbor- 
hood, particularly the suspected persons, should 
come to assemble at Cassid3^'s house in order to 
have the characters of the innocent cleared up, 
and the guilty, if possible, made known. 

On the evening before this took place were as- 
sembled in Meehan's cottage the elder Meehan 
and the rest of the gang, including Denis, who 
had absconded on the night of the theft. 

*' Well, well, Denny," said Anthony, who forced 
his rugged nature into an appearance of better 
temper, that he might strengthen the timid spirit 
of his brother against the scrutiny about to take 
place on the morrow — perhaps too, he dreaded 
him — "■ Well, well, Denny, I thought sure enough 
that it was some new piece of cowardice came 
over you. Just think of him," he added, **shab- 
bin' off, only because he made with a bit of a rod 
three strokes in the ashes that he thought resem- 
bled a coffin !— iia ! ha ! ha ! " 



234 Half Hours zuith Irish Authors, 

This produced a peal of derision at Denis's pu- 
sillanimous terror. 

" Ay," said the Big- Mower, '' he was makin' a 
coffin, was he ? I wondher it wasn't a rope you 
drew, Denny. If any one dies in the coil, it will 
be the greatest coward, an' that's 3^ourself." 

"You may all laugh," replied Denis, ''but I 
know such things to have a manin'. When my 
mother died, didn't my father— the heaven's be his 
bed ! — see a black coach about a week before it ? 
An' sure from the first day she tuck ill the dead- 
watch was heard in the house every night ; and 
what was more nor that, she kept warm until she 
went into her grave ;* an', accordingly, didn't my 
sister Shibby die within a year afther ? " 

'' It's no matther about thim things," replied 
Anthony ; '' it's thruth about the dead-watch, my 
mother keepin' warm, an' Shibby's death, any- 
way. But on the night we tuk Cassidy's horse, 1 
thought 3^ou were goin' to betray us; I was 
surely in a murdherin' passion, an' would have 
done harm, only things turned out as they did." 

"Why," said Denis, "the thruth is I was 
afeard some of us would be shot, an' that the lot 
would fall on myself; for the cofhn, thinks I, 
was sent as a warnin'. How-and-ever, I spied 
about Cassidy's stable till I seen that the coast 
was clear; so, when I heard the low cry of the 

* It IS supposed in Ireland when a corpse retains, for a longer space of time 
than usual, anything like animal heat, that some person belonging to the fam- 
ily of the deceased will die within a year. 



TJie Donagh. 235 

Patrick that Anthony and I agreed on, I joined 
yez," 

" Well, .about to-morrow," observed Kenny — 
"ha! ha! ha! — there'll be lots o' swearin'. Why, 
the whole parish is to switch the primer ; many a 
thumb and coat-cuff will be kissed in spite of 
priest or magistrate. I remimber once, when 1 
was swearin' an alibi ior long Paddy Murray, that 
suffered for* the IM'Gee's, I kissed my thumb, I 
thought, so smoothly that no one would notice 
it ; but I had a keen one to dale with ; so says he, 
* You know, for the matther o' that, my good fel- 
low, that you have your thitmb to kiss every day 
in the week,' says he, ' but you might salute the 
book out o' dacency and good manners ; not,' says 
he, ' that you an' it are strangers, aither ; for, if I 
don't mistake, you're an ould hand at swearin' 
alibis.' 

" At all evints, I had to smack the book itself, 
and it's I, and Barney Green, and Tim Casserly 
that did swear stiffly for Paddy, but the thing 
was too clear agin him. So he suffered, poor 
fellow, an' died right game, for he said over his 
dhrop — ha ! ha ! ha ! — that he was as innocent o' the 
murder as a child unborn ; an' so he was in one 
sinse, bein' afther gettin' absolution." 

''As to thumb-kissin'," observed the elder Mee- 
han, '' let there be none of it among us to-morrow ; 
if we're caught at it, 'twould be as bad as stay in' 
away altogether ; for my part, Fll give it a smack 
like a pistol shot — ha ! ha ! ha ! " 



236 H(-i^f Hours zuitJi Irish Authors. 

'* I hope they won't bring the priest's book," 
said Denis. " I haven't the laste objection ag-in 
pa3'in' my respects to the magistrate s paper, but 
somehow I don't like tastin' the priest's in a 
falsity." 

'' Don't you know," said the Big Mower, '' that, 
whin a magistrate's present, it's ever an' always 
only the Tistament by lazv that's used ? I myself 
wouldn't kiss the Mass-book in a falsity." 

'' There's none of us say in' we'd do it in a lie," 
said the elder Meehan ; ^* an' it's well for thou- 
sands that the law doesn't use the priest's book ; 
though, afther all, aren't there books that say re- 
ligion's all a sham ? I think myself it is ; for, if 
what they talk about justice an' Providence is 
thrue, would Tom Dillon be transported for the 
robbery zve committed at Bantry ? Tom, it's 
true, was an ould offender ; but he was innocent 
of that, anyway. The world's all chance, boys, 
as Sargint Eustace used to say, and whin we die 
there's no more about us ; so that I don't see why 
a man mightn't as well switch the priest's book as 
any other, only that somehow a body can't shake 
the terror of it oflTo' them." 

** I dunna, Anthony, but you an' I ought to 
curse that sargint ; only for him we mightn't be 
as we are, sore in our conscience, and afeard of 
every fut we hear passin'," observed Denis. 

'' Spake for your own cowardly heart, man 
alive !" replied Anthony ; '' for my part, I'm afeard 
o' nothin'. Put round the glass, and don't be 



The DonagJi. 237 

nursin' it there all night. Sure we're not so bad 
as the rot among the sheep, nor the blackleg 
among the bullocks, nor the staggers among the 
horses, anyhow ; an' yet they'd hang us up only 
for bein' fond o' a bit o' mate — ha ! ha ! ha ! " 

" Thrue enough," said the Big Mower, philoso- 
phizing ; '' God made the beef and the mutton, and 
the grass to feed it; but it was man made the 
ditches ; now we're only bringin' things back to 
the right way that Providence made them in 
when ould times were in it, manin before ditches 
war invinted — ha ! ha ! ha ! " 

'* 'Tis a good argument," observed Kenny, 
''only that judge and jury would be a little deli- 
cate in actin' up to it; an' the more's the pity. 
Howsomever, as Providence made the mutton, 
sure it's not harm for us to take what he sends." 

'' Ay, but," said Denis — 

'God made man, an' man made money ; 
God made bees, and bees made honey; 
God made Satan, an' Satan made sin ; 
An' God made a hell to put Satan in.' 

Let nobody say there's not a hell ; isn't there it 
plain from Scripthur ? " 

" I wish you had the Scripthur tied about your 
neck ! " replied Anthony. " How fond o' it one 
o' the greatest thieves that ever missed the rope 
is! Why, the fellow could plan a roguery with 
any man that ever danced the hangman's horn- 
pipe, and yet he he's repatin' bits an' scraps of 
ould prayers, an' charms, an stuff. Ay, indeed ! 



238 t'i(^if Hours with Irish Authors, 

Shure he has a varse out o' the Bible that he 
thinks can prevent a man from bein' hung up any 
day !" 

While Denny, the Big- Mower, and the two 
Meehans were thus engaged in giving expression 
to their peculiar opinions, the pedlar held a con- 
versation of a different kind with Anne. 

With the secrets of the family in his keeping, 
he commenced a rather penitent review of his 
own life, and expressed his intention of abandon- 
ing so dangerous a mode of accumulating wealth. 
He said that he thanked Heaven he had already 
laid up sufficient for the wants of a reasonable 
man ; that he undeistood farming and the man- 
agement oi sheep particularly well ; that it was his 
intention to remove to a different part of the king- 
dom, and take a farm ; and that nothing prevented 
him from having done this before, but the want 
of a helpmate to take care of his establishment; 
he added that his present wife was of an intolera- 
ble temper, and a greater villain by fifty degrees 
than himself. He concluded by saying that his 
conscience twitched him night and day for living 
with her, and that by abandoning her immedi- 
atel}^, becoming truly religious, and taking Anne 
in her place, he hoped, he said, to atone in some 
measure for his former errors. 

Anthony, however, having noticed the earnest- 
ness which marked the pedlar's manner, suspect- 
ed him of attempting to corrupt the principles 
of his daughter, having forgotten the inffuence 



The Donagh. 239 

which his own opinions were calculated to pro- 
duce upon her heart. 

" Martin," said he, '' 'twould be as well 3-ou ped 
attention to what we're sayin' in regard o' the 
thrial to-morrow, as to be palaverin' talk into the 
girl's ear that can't be good comin' from yoiu^ lips. 
Quit it, I say, quit it ! Corp an duozvol''^ — I won't 
allow such proceedin's ! " 

" Swear till you blister your lips, Anthony," 
replied Martin ; " as for me, bein' no residenthur, 
I'm not bound to it; an' what's more, I'm not 
suspected. 'Tis settin' some other bit o' work for 
yez I'll be, while you're all clearin' yourselves 
from stealin' honest Cassidy's horse. I wish we 
had him safely disposed of in the mane time, an' 
the money for him an' the other beasts in our 
pockets." 

Much more conversation of a similar kind passed 
between them upon various topics connected with 
their profligacy and crimes. At length they sep- 
arated for the night, after having concerted their 
plan of action for the ensuing scrutiny. 

The next morning, before the hour appointed 
arrived, the parish, particularly the neighborhood 
of Carnmorc, was struck with deep consternation. 
Labor became suspended, mirth disappeared, 
and every face was marked with paleness, anxiety, 
and apprehension. If two men met, one shook 
his head mysteriousl}^, and inquired from the oth- 
er, " Did you hear the news ? " 

* My body to Satan, 



240 Half Hours "iviiJi Irish Authors. 

'' Ay! ay! the Lord be about us all, I did ! an' 
I pray God that it may lave the counthry as it 
came to it." 

" Oh ! an' that it may, I humbly make supplica- 
tion this day ! " 

If two women met, it was with similar mystery 
and fear. " Vread,^' do you know what's at the 
Cassidy's? " 

*' Whisht, a-hagur, I do; but let what will hap- 
pen sure, it's best for us to say nothin'." 

''Say! the blessed Virgin forbid! I'd cut my 
hand off o' me, afore I'd spake a word about it ; 
only that—" 

" Whisht! woman — for mercy's sake — don't — " 

And so they would separate, each crossing her- 
self devoutly. 

The meeting at Cassidy's was to take place 
that da}^ at twelve o'clock ; but, about two hours 
before the appointed time, Anne, who had been in 
some of the other houses, came into her father's, 
quite pale, breathless, and trembling. 

'* Oh !" she exclaimed, with clasped hands, 
while the tears fell fast from her eyes, '' we'll be 
lost, ruined ! Did yez hear what's in the neigh- 
borhood wid the Cassidys ? " 

" Girl," said the father, with more severity than 
he had ever manifested to her before, "I never 
yet ris my hand to you, but ma corp an duoivol, if 
you open your lips, V\\ fell you where you stand. 
Do you want that cowardly uncle o' 3'ours to be 

* Vread— ^«^//Vt\ Margaret. 



TJie DonagJi, 241 

the manes o' hanging your father? Ma}^ be that 
was one o' the lessons Martin gave you last 
night?" And as he spoke he knit his brows at 
her with that murderous scowl which was habit- 
ual to him. The girl trenibled, and began to 
think that, since her father's temper deepened in 
domestic outrage and violence as his crimes mul- 
tiplied, the sooner she left the family the better. 
Every day, indeed, diminished that species of in- 
stinctive affection which she had entertained 
towards him ; and this, in proportion as her rea- 
son ripened into a capacity for comprehending 
the dark materials of which his character was 
composed. Whether he himself began to con- 
sider detection at hand or not, we cannot say ; 
but it is certain that his conduct was marked 
with a callous recklessness of spirit, which in- 
creased in atrocit}^ to such a degree that even 
his daughter could onl\^ not look on him with dis- 
gust. 

''What's the matter now?" inquired Denis, 
with alarm. " Is it anything about us, Anthon}^ ? " 

*' No, 'tisn't," replied the other, '' anything 
about us! What 'ud it be about us for? 'Tis a 
lyin' report that some cunnin' knave spread, hop- 
in' to find out the guilty. But hear me, Denis, 
once for all; we're goin' to clear ourselv^es — now 
listen — an' let my words sink deep into your 
heart ; if you refuse to swear this day — no mat- 
ther whafs put into your hand — you'll do harm — 
that's all; have courage, man; but should you 



242 Half Hours ivitJi Irish AutJiors. 

coza, your coorse will be short ; an' mark, even if 
j'o?i escape me, your sons won't ; I have it all 
planned; an' corp an dnozvol I thim you won't 
know from Adam will revenge me, if I am taken 
up through your unmanliness." 

'' 'Twould be betther for us to lave the coun- 
thry," said Anne ; ''we might slip away as it is." 

'* Ay," said the father, " an' be taken by the 
neck afore we get t\yo mile from the place ! No, 
no, girl ; it's the safest way to brazen thim out. 
Did you hear me, Denis?" 

Denis started, for he had been evidently pon- 
dering on the mysterious words of x\nne, to which 
his brother's anxiety to conceal them gave addi- 
tional mystery. The coffin, too, recurred to him, 
and he feared that the death shadowed out by it 
would in some manner or other occur in the fam- 
ily. He was, in fact, one of those miserable vil- 
lains with but half a conscience ; — that is to say, 
as much as makes them the slaves of the fear 
which results from crime, without being the 
.slightest impediment to their committing it. It 
was no wonder he started at the deep pervading 
tones of his brother's voice, for the question was 
put with ferocious energy. 

On starting, he looked with vague terror on his 
brother, fearing, but not comprehending, his 
question. 

'* What is it, Anthony? " he inquired. 

" Oh ! for that matther," replied the other, 
" nothin' at all ; think of what I said to you, any- 



TJie Donagh. 243 

how ; swear through thick and thin, if you have 
a regard for your own health, or for your chil- 
dher. May be I had betther repate it agin for 
you ? " he continued, e3^eing him with mingled 
fear and suspicion. " Denis, as a friend, I bid yoxs. 
mind yourself this day, an' see you .don't bring 
aither of us into throuble." 

There lay before the Cassidys' houses a small 
flat of common, trodden into rings by the young 
horses they were in the habit of training. On 
this level space w^ere assembled those who came, 
either to clear their ov\'n character from suspicion 
or to witness the ceremony. The day was dark 
and lowering, and heav}^ clouds rolled slowly 
across the peaks of the surrounding mountains ; 
scarcely a breath of air could be felt ; and, as the 
countrj^ people silently approached, such v/as the 
closeness of the da}^ their haste to arrive in time, 
and their general anxiety, either for themselves 
or their friends, that almost every man, on reach- 
ing the spot, might be seen taking up the skirts 
of his " cothamore," or '' big coat" (the peasant's 
handkerchief), to wipe the sweat from his brow; 
and as he took off his dingy woollen hat, or cau- 
been, the perspiration rose in strong exhalations 
from his head. 

'' ^lichael, am I in time ?" might be heard from 
such persons as they arrived : '' did this business 
begin yit ? " 

" Full time, Larry ; m3'self 's here an hour ago, 
but no appe:irance of anything as yit. Father 



244 I'J<^if Hours with Irish Authors. 

Farrell and Squire Nicholson are both in Cas- 
sidj's waitin* till they all gather, whin they'll be- 
gin to put them through their facin's. You hard 
about what they've got ? " 

'' No ; for I'm only on my way home from the 
berril of a cleaven of mine, that we put down this 
mornin' in Tullyard. What is it? " 

'' Why, man alive, it's through the whole parish 
inreadyy He then went on, lowering his voice to 
a whisper, and speaking in a tone bordering on 
dismay. 

The other crossed himself, and betra^^ed symp- 
toms of avv'e and astonishment, not unmingled 
with fear. 

" Well," he replied, " I dimna whether I'd come 
here, if I'd known that; for, innocent or guilty, I 
wouldn't wish to be near it. Och, may God pity 
thim that's to come acrass it, espishily if the}^ 
dare to do it in a lie !" 

'' The}^ needn't, I can tell yez both," observed 
a third person, " be a hair afeard of it, for the 
best raison livin', that there's no thruth at all 
in the report, nor the Cassidys' never thought of 
sindin' for an3'thing o' the kind ; I have it from 
Larry Cassidy's own lips, an' he ought to know 
best." 

The truth is, that two reports were current 
among the crowd ; one that the oath was to be 
simply on the Bible ; and the other that a more 
awful means of expurgation was resorted to by 
the Cassid_ys. The people consequently, not 



The Doriagh. 245 

knowing- which to credit, felt that most painful of 
all sensations — uncertainty. 

During the period which intervened between 
their assembling and the commencement of the 
ceremony, a spectator, interested in contemplat- 
ing the workings of human nature in circumstan- 
ces of deep interest, w^ould have ample scope for 
observation. The occasion was to them a solemn 
one. There was little conversation among them ; 
for, when a man is wound up to a pitch of great 
interest, he is seldom disposed to relish discourse. 
Every brow was anxious, every cheek blanched, 
and every arm folded ; they scarcely stirred, or, 
wdien they did, only with slow abstracted move- 
ments, rather mechanical than voluntary. If an 
individual made his appearance about Cassidy's 
door, a sluggish stir among them was visible, and 
alow murmur of a peculiar character might be 
heard ; but on perceiving that it Avas onl}^ some 
ordinary person, all subsided again into a brood- 
ing stillness that w^as equally singular and im- 
pressive. 

Under this peculiar feeling was the multitude, 
when Meehan and his brother were seen ap- 
proaching it from their own house. The eider, 
with folded arms, and hat pulled over his brows, 
stalked grimly forward, having that remarkable 
scowl upon his face which had contributed to 
establish for him so diabolical a character. Denis 
walked by his side, with his countenance strained 
to inflation ; — a miserable parody of that sullen 



246 Half Hours iviiJi Irish Authors. 

effrontery which marked the unshrinking mis- 
creant beside him. He had not heard of the 
ordeal, owing- to the caution of Anthony : but> 
notwithstanding his effort at indifference, a keen 
eye might have observed the latent anxiety of a 
man who vras habitually villanous and naturally 
timid. 

When this pair entered the crowd, a few secret 
glances, too rapid to be noticed b}^ the people, 
passed between them and their accomplices. Denis, 
on seeing them present, took fresh courage, and 
looked with the heroism of a blusterer upon those 
who stood about him, especially whenever he 
found himself under the scrutinizing eye of his 
brother. Such was the horror and detestation in 
which the}^ were held, that, on advancing into the 
assembly, the persons on each side turned awa}^, 
and openly avoided them ; eyes full of fierce 
hatred were bent on them vindictivel}^ and 
" curses, not loud, but deep," were muttered with 
indignation which nothing but a divided state of 
feeling could repress within due limits. Every 
glance, however, was paid back by Anthony with 
interest, from eyes and black shaggy brows tre- 
mendously ferocious ; and his curses, as they 
rolled up half smothered from his huge chest, 
were deeper and more diabolical by far than their 
own. He even jeered at them ; but, however 
disgusting his frown, there was something truly 
appalling in the dark gleam of his scoff, which 
threw them at an immeasurable distance behind 



The Donagh. 247 

him, in the power of displaying on the counte- 
nance the worst human passions. 

At length Mr. Nicholson, Father Farrell, and 
his curate, attended by the Cassidys and their 
friends, issued from the house ; two or three 
servants preceded them, bearing a table and 
chairs for the magistrate and priests, who, how- 
ever, stood during the ceremony. When they 
entered one of the rings before alluded to, the 
table and chairs w^ere placed in the centre of it, 
and Father Farrell, as possessing most influence 
over the people, addressed them very impressive- 

''There are," said he, in conclusion, '' persons 
in this crowd whom we know to be guilty ; but we 
will have an opportunity of now witnessing the 
lengths to which crime, long indulged in, can 
carry them. To such people I would say, beware ! 
for they know not the situation in v/hich they ar.e 
placed." 

During all this time there was not the slightest 
allusion made to the mysterious ordeal which had 
excited so much awe and apprehension among 
them — a circumstance v/hich occasioned many a 
pale, downcast face to clear up, and reassume its 
usual cheerful expression. The crowd now were 
assembled around the ring, and every man on 
whom an imputation had been fastened came for- 
ward, when called upon, to the table at which 
the priest and magistrate stood uncovered. The 
form of the oath was framed by the two clergy- 



248 Half Hours 'ivith Irish Authors. 

men, who, as they knew the reservations and 
evasions commonest among- such characters, had 
ingeniously contrived not to leave a single loop- 
hole through which the consciences of those who 
belonged to this worthy fraternity might escape. 

To those acquainted with Irish courts of justice 
there was nothing particularl}^ remarkable in the 
swearing. Indeed, one who stood among the 
crowd might hear from those who were stationed 
at the greatest distance from the table, such 
questions as the following : — 

'' Is the thing m it, Art?" 

" No ; 'tis nothin' but the lazu Bible, the magis- 
trate's own one/' 

To this the querist would reply, with a satisfied 
nod of the head, "Oh! is that all? I heard they 
war to have it /' on which he would push himself 
through the crowd until he reached the table, 
where he took his oath as readily as another. 

"Jem Hartigan," said the magistrate, to one of 
those persons, ''zltq you to swear?" 

" Faix, myself doesn't know, you honor ; onl}^ 
that I hard them say that the Cassidys mintioned 
our names along wid many other honest people; 
an' one wouldn't, in' that case, lie under a false 
report, your honor, from any one, when we're as 
clear as them that never saw the light of anything 
of the kind." 

The magistrate then put the book into his hand, 
and Jem, in return, fixed his gjq, with much 
apparent innocence, on his face : '' Now, Jem 



The Donagh, 249 

Hartigan," etc. etc., and the oath was accordingly 
administered. Jem put the book to his mouth, 
with his thumb raised to an acute angle on the 
back of it ; nor was the smack by any means a 
silent one which he gave it (his thumb). 

The magistrate set his ear with the air of a man 
who had experience in discriminating such sounds. 
"Hartigan," said he, ''you'll condescend to kiss 
the booky sir, if you please ; there's a hollowness 
in that smack, my good fellow, that can't escape 
me'' 

'' Not kiss it, your honor? Why, by this staff in 
my hand, if ever a man kissed — " 

''Silence! you impostor," said the curate; "I 
watched you closely, and am confident your lips 
never touched the book." 

" My lips never touched the book! — Why, you 
know I'd be sarry to conthradict either o' yez ; but 
I was jist goin' to obsarve, wid simmission, that 
my own lips ought to know best ; an' don't you 
hear them tellin' yon that they did kiss it ?" And he 
grinned with confidence in their faces. 

"You double-dealing reprobate!" said the 
parish priest, " I'll lay my whip across your jaws. 
I saw you, too, an' you did 7iot kiss the book." 

" By dad, an' may be I did not, sure enough," 
he replied ; " any man may make a mistake un- 
knownst to himself; but I'd give my oath, an' be 
the five crasses, I kissed it as sure as — however, 
a good thing's never the worse o' bein' twice 
done, gintlemen ; so here goes, jist to satisfy yez.' 



250 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 

And, placing the book near bis moutb, and alter- 
ing bis position a little, be appeared to compl}^ 
tbougb, on tbe contrary, be toucbed neitber it nor 
bis thumb. '' It's tbe same thing to me," be con- 
tinued, laying down tbe book with an air of con- 
fident assurance ; '' it's tbe same thing to me if I 
kissed it fifty times over^ which I'm ready to do 
a that doesn't satisfy yez." 

As every man acquitted himself of the charges 
brought against him, tbe curate immediately took 
down bis name. Indeed, before tbe '' clearing" 
commenced, be requested that such as were to 
swear would stand together within the ring, that, 
after having- sworn, be mio:bt band each of them a 
certificate of the fact, which they appeared to think 
might be serviceable to them, should the}^ happen 
to be subsequently indicted for the same crime in 
a court of justice. This, however, was only a 
plan to keep them together for what was soon to 
take place. 

The detections of thumb-kissing were received 
by those who bad already sworn, and by several 
in tbe outward crowd, with much mirth. It is but 
justice, however, to tbe majority of those assem- 
bled to state that they appeared to entertain a 
serious opinion of tbe nature of the ceremony, and 
no small degree of abhorrence against those who 
seemed to trifle with tbe solemnity of an oath. 

Standing on tbe edge of tbe circle, in tbe inner- 
most row, were Meeban and bis brother. The 
former eyed, with all tbe hardness of a stoic, tbe 



The DonagJu 251 

successive individuals as they passed up to the 
table. His accomplices had gone forward, and to 
the surprise of many who strongly suspected 
them, in the most indifferent manner '' cleared '* 
themselves, in the trying words of the oath, of all 
knowledge of, and participation in, the thefts that 
had taken place. 

The grim visage of the elder Meehan was 
marked by a dark smile, scarcely perceptible ; 
but his brother, whose nerves were not so firm, 
appeared somewhat confused and distracted by 
the imperturbable villany of the perjurers. 

At length they were called up. Anthony ad- 
vanced slowly but collectedly to the table, only 
turning his eye slightly about to observe if his 
brother accompanied him. *' Denis," said he, 
'' which of us will swear first ? You may." For, as 
he doubted his brother's firmness, he was prudent 
enough, should he fail, to guard against having 
the sin of perjury to answer for, along with those 
demands which his country had to make for his 
other crimes. Denis took the book, and cast a 
slight glance at his brother as if for encourage- 
ment ; their eyes met, and the darkened brow of 
Anthony hinted at the danger of flinching in this 
crisis. The tremor of his hand was not, perhaps, 
visible to any but Anthony, who, however, did 
not overlook this circumstance. He held the 
book, but raised not his eye to meet the looks of 
either the magistrate or the priest's ; the color 
also left his face, as with shrinking lips he touched 



252 Half Hours ivith Irish AtitJiors. 

the Word of God in deliberate falsehood. Hav- 
ing then laid it down, Anthony received it with a 
firm grasp, and, Avhilst his eye turned boldl}^ in 
contemptuous mockery upon those who presented 
it, he impressed it with the kiss of a man whose 
depraved conscience seemed to goad him only to 
evil. After " clearing" himself, he laid the Bible 
upon the table with the affected air of a person 
who felt hurt at the imputation of theft, and joined 
the rest, with a frov/n upon his countenance, and 
a smothered curse upon his lips. 

Just at this moment, a person from Cassidy's 
house laid upon the table a small box covered 
with black cloth ; and our readers will be sur- 
prised to hear that, if fire had come down visibly 
from heaven, greater awe and fear could not have 
been struck into their hearts or depicted* upon 
their countenances. The casual conversation and 
the commentaries upon the ceremony they had 
witnessed, instantly settled into a most profound 
silence, and every eye was turned towards it with 
an interest absolutely fearful. 

'' Let," said the curate, "none of those who 
have sworn depart from within the ring, until they 
once more clear themselves upon this ;" and as he 
spoke, he held it up — " Behold," said he, '' and 
tremble— behold The Donagh ! ! ! " 

A low murmur of awe and astonishment burst 
from the people in general, whilst those within 
the ring, who with few exceptions were the worst 
characters in the parish, appeared ready to sink 



TJie Donagh. 253 

into the earth. Their countenances, for the most 
part, paled into the condemned hue of guilt; 
many of them became almost unable to stand ; 
and altogether the state of trepidation and terror 
in which they stood was strikingly wild and ex- 
traordinary. 

The curate proceeded : "■ Let him now who is 
guilty depart ; or, if he wishes, advance, and chal- 
lenge the awful penalty annexed to perjury upon 
THIS ! Who has ever been known to swear falsely 
upon the Donagh, without being visited by a tre- 
mendous punishment, either on the spot, or in 
twenty-four hours after his perjury ? If we our- 
selves have not seen such instances with our own 
eyes, it is because none liveth who dare incur 
such dreadful penalty ; but we have heard of 
those who did, and of their awful punishment 
afterwards. Sudden death, madness, paralysis, 
self-destruction, or the murder of some one dear 
to them, are the marks by which perjury upon 
the Donagh is known and visited. Advance now, 
ye who are innocent, but let the guilty withdraw ; 
for Ave do not desire to witness the terrible ven- 
gance which would attend a false oath upon the 
Donagh. Pause, therefore, and be cautious ! for 
if this grievous sin be committed, a heavy punish- 
ment will fall, not only upon you, but upon the 
parish in which it occurs ! " 

The words of the priest sounded to the guilty 
like the death sentence of a judge. Before he 
concluded, all except Meehan and his brother, 



254 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 

and a few who Avere really innocent, had slunk 
back out of the circle into the crowd. Denis, 
however, became pale as a corpse, and from time 
to time wiped the large drops from his haggard 
brow ; even Anthony's cheek, despite of his natu- 
ral callousness, was less red ; his eyes became dis- 
turbed, but by their influence he contrived to 
keep Denis in sufficient dread to prevent him 
from mingling, like- the rest, among the people. 
The few who remained along with them advanced, 
and notwithstanding their innocence, when the 
Donagh was presented and the figure of Christ 
and the Twelve Apostles displayed in the solemn 
tracery of its carving, they exhibited S3^mptoms 
of fear. With trembling hands they touched the 
Donagh, and with trembUng lips kissed the Cru- 
cifix, in attestation of their guiltlessness of the 
charge with which they had been accused. 

"• Anthony and Denis Meehan, come forward," 
said the curate, '' and declare your innocence of 
the crimes with which you are charged by the 
Cassidys and others." 

Anthony advanced, but Denis stood rooted to 
the ground ; on perceiving which, the former 
sternly returned a step or two, and catching him 
by the arm with an admonitory grip that could 
not easily be misunderstood, compelled him to 
proceed with himself step by step to the table. 
DeniSj however, could feel the strong man trem- 
ble, and perceive that, although he strove to lash 
himself into the energy of despair, and the utter 



The Donagh. 255 

disbelief of all religious sanction, 3^et the trial be- 
fore him called every slumbering- prejudice and 
apprehension of his mind into active power. This 
was a death-blow to his own resolution, or, rather 
it confirmed him in his previous determination 
not to swear on the Donagh, except to acknow- 
ledge his guilt, Vv^hich he could scarcely prevent 
himself from doing, such was the vacillating state 
of mind to which he felt himself reduced. 

When Anthony reached the table, his huge 
form seemed to dilate by his effort at maintaining 
the firmness necessary to support him in this aw- 
ful struggle between conscience and superstition, 
on the one hand, and guilt, habit, and infidelity, 
on the other. He fixed his deep, dilated ej^es 
upon the Donagh, in a manner that betokened 
somewhat of irresolution ; his countenance fell, 
his color came and went, but eventually settled 
in a flushed red ; his powerful hands and arms 
tremxbled so much, that he folded them to pre- 
vent his agitation from being noticed ; the grim- 
ness of his face ceased to be stern, while it re- 
tained the blank expression of guilt ; his temples 
swelled out with the terrible play of their blood- 
vessels, his chest, too, heaved up and down with 
the united pressure of guilt, and the tempest 
which shook him within. At length he saw 
Denis's eye upon him, and his passions took a 
new direction ; he knit his brows at him with 
more than usual fierceness, ground his teeth, and, 
with a step and action of suppressed fur}^ he 



256 Half Hours with Irish AtttJiors. 

placed his foot at the edge of the table, and, bow- 
ing down under the eye of God and man, took 
the awful oath on the mysterious Donagh, in a 
falsehood ! When it was finished, a feeble groan 
broke from his brother's lips. Anthony bent his 
eye on him with a deadly glare, but Denis saw it 
not. The shock was beyond his courage — he had 
become insensible. 

Those who stood at the outskirts of the crowd, 
seeing Denis apparently lifeless, tfiought he must 
have sworn falsely on the Donagh, and exclaimed, 
"He's dead! gracious God! Denis Meehan's 
struck dead by the Donagh ! He swore in a lie, 
and is now a corpse ! " Anthony paused, and 
calmly surveyed him, as he lay with his head 
resting upon the hands of those who supported 
him. At this moment a silent breeze came over 
where he stood ; and, as the Donagh lay upon 
the table, the black ribbons with which it was or- 
namented fluttered with a melancholy appear- 
ance that deepened the sensations of the people 
into something peculiarly solemn and preternatu- 
ral. Denis at length revived, and stared wildly 
and vacantly about him. When composed suffi- 
ciently to distinguish and recognize individual 
objects, he looked upon the gloomy visage and 
threatening eye of his brother, and shrank back 
with a terror almost epileptical. *' Oh ! " he ex- 
claimed, " save me ! save me from that man, and 
I'll discover all ! " 

Anthony calmly folded one arm into his bosom, 



The Donagh. 257 

and his lip quivered, with the united influence of 
hatred and despair. 

" Hould him ! " shrieked a voice which pro- 
ceeded from his daughter. " Hould my father, or 
he'll murdher him ! Oh ! oh ! merciful heaven ! " 

Ere the words were uttered, she had made an 
attempt to clasp the arms of her parent whose 
motions she understood ; but only in time to re- 
ceive from the pistol which he had concealed in 
his breast the bullet aimed at her uncle ! She 
tottered, and the blood spouted out of her neck 
upon her father's brows, who hastily put up his 
hand and wiped it away, for it had actually blind- 
ed him. 

The elder Meehan was a tall man, and, as he 
stood elevated nearly a head above the crowd, his 
grim brows red with his daughter's blood — Avhich, 
in attempting to wipe away, he had deeply 
streaked across his face — his eyes shooting fiery 
gleams of his late resentment, mingled with the 
wildness of unexpected horror — as he thus stood, 
it would be impossible to contemplate a more re- 
volting picture of that state to which the princi- 
ples that had regulated his life must ultimately 
lead, even in this world. 

On perceiving what he had done, the deep 
W'Orking of his powerful frame was struck into 
sudden stillness, and he turned his eyes on his 
bleeding daughter, with a fearful perception of 
her situation. Now was the harvest of his creed 
and crimes reaped in blood ; and he felt that the 



258 Ilcilf Hours zvith Irish Authors. 

stroke which had fallen upon him was one of 
those by which God will sometimes bare his arm 
and vindicate his justice. The reflection, how- 
ever, shook him not; the reality of his misery 
was too intense and pervading, and grappled too 
strongly with his hardened and unbending spirit, 
to waste its power upon a nerve or a muscle. It 
was abstracted, and be3^ond the reach of bodily 
suffering. From the moment his daughter fell, he 
moved not ; his lips were half open with the con- 
viction produced by the blasting truth of her 
death, effected prematurely by his own hand. 

Those parts of his face which had not been 
stained with her blood assumed an ashy paleness, 
and rendered his countenance more terrific by 
the contrast. Tall, powerful, and motionless he 
appeared to the crowd, glaring at the girl like a 
tiger anxious to join his offspring, yet stunned 
with the shock of the bullet which has touched a 
vital part. His iron-gray hair, as it fsU in thick 
masses about his neck, was moved slightly by the 
blast, and a lock w^hich fell over his temple was 
blown back with a motion rendered more distinct 
by his statue-Hke attitude, immovable as death. 

A silent and awful gathering of the people 
around this impressive scene intimated their 
knowledge of what they considered to be a judi- 
cial punishment annexed to perjury upon the 
Donagh. This relic lay on the table, and the 
eyes of those who stood within view of it turned 
from Anthony's countenance to it, and again back 



The Donagh. 259 

to his blood-stained visage, Avith all the over- 
whelming influence of superstitious fear. Shud- 
derings, tremblings, crossings, and ejaculations 
marked their conduct and feeling ; for though the 
incident itself was simply a fatal and uncommon 
one, yet they considered it supernatural and mi- 
raculous. 

At length a loud and agonizing cry burst from 
the lips of Meehan — '^ O God ! God of heaven 
an' earth ! — have I murdhered my daughter ? " 
And he cast down the fatal weapon with a force 
which buried it some inches into the w^et clay. 

The crowd had closed upon Anne, but with 
the strength of a giant he flung them aside, caught 
the girl in his arms, and pressed her bleeding to 
his bosom. He gasped for breath. ''Anne," said 
he — " Anne, I am without hope, an' there's none 
to forgive me except you — none at all ; from God 
to the poorest of his creatures, I am hated an' 
cursed by all, except you ! Don't curse me, Anne, 
don't curse me ! Oh ! isn't it enough, darlin', 
that my sowl is now stained v/ith your blood, 
along with my other crimes? In hell, on earth, 
an' in heaven there's none to forgive your father 
but yourself! — none, none! Oh! what's com- 
in' over me ! I'm dizzy an' shiverin' ! How cowld 
the. day's got of a sudden! Flould up, avoiiriieen 
machree! I zvas a bad man ; but to you, Anne, I 
w^as not as I was to ever}^ one ! Darlin', oh ! look 
at me with forgiveness in your eye, or, anyway, 
don't curse me ! Oh ! I'm far cowlder now ! Tell 



26o Half Hours zuith Irish Aicthors. 

me that 3^011 forgive me, acushla, age machreef — 
Manhn asthce Jiu^' darlin', say it. I dar'n't Look 
TO God ! But, oh ! do you say the forgiviii' word 
to 3'our father before you die ! " 

*' Father," said she, " I deserve this — it's only 
just ; I have plotted Avith that divilish Martin to 
betray them all, except yourself, an' to get the re- 
ward ; an* then we intended to go — an' — live at a 
distance — an' in wickedness — where we — might 
not be known — he's at our house — let him be — se- 
cured. Forgive me, father — you said so often 
that there was no thruth in religion — that I began 
to — think so. O — God ! have mercy upon me ! *' 
And with these words she expired. 

INIeehan's countenance, on hearing this, was 
overspread with a ghastly look of the most deso- 
lating agony ; he staggered back, and t-he body of 
his daughter, Avhich he strove to hold, would 
have fallen from his arms, had it not been caught 
by the 'by-standers. His ej-e sought out his 
brother, but not in resentment. '' Oh ! she died, 
but didn't say, ' I forgive you !' Denis," said he, 
''Denis, bring me home — I'm sick — very sick — 
oh ! but it's cowld — everj^thing's i-eeling — how 
cowld — cowld it is ! " And, as he uttered the last 
words, he shuddered, fell down in a fit of apo- 
plexy, never to rise again ; and the bodies of his 
daughter and himself were both waked and buried 
together. 

The result is brief. The rest of the gang were 

♦ Young pulse of my heart !— my soul is within thee ! 



TJie Donagh. 261 

secured ; Denis became approver, by whose evi- 
dence they suffered that punishment decreed by 
law to the crimes of which they had been guilty. 
The two events which we have just related of 
course added to the supernatural fear and reve- 
rence previously entertained for this terrible relic. 
It is still used as an ordeal of expurgation, in 
cases of stolen property ; and we are not wrong 
in asserting that many of these misguided crea- 
tures, who too frequently hesitate not to swear 
falsely on the Word of God, would suffer death 
itself sooner than commit a perjury on the 
Donagh. 



LARRY MCFARLAND'S WAKE, 

AS DESCRIBED BY TOM McROARKIN. 



THE squire very kindly lent sheets for them 
both to be laid out in, and mould candle- 
sticks to hould the lights ; and, God he knows ! 
'twas a grievous sight to see the father and mother 
both stretched beside one another in their poor 
place, and their little orphans about them ; the gor- 
soons — them that had sense enough to know their 
loss — breaking their hearts, the crathurs, and so 
hoarse that they weren't able to cry or spake. 
But, indeed, it was worse to see the two 3'oung 
things going over, and wanting to get acrass to 
waken their daddy and mamm}^ poor desolit 
childher ! 

When the corpses were washed and dressed, 
they looked uncommonh- well, consitherin'. Larry, 
indeed, didn't bear death so well as Sall}^ ; but 
you couldn't meet a purtier corpse than she was 
in a daj^'s travelling. I say, when they were 
washed and dressed, their friends and neighbors 
knelt down round them, and offered up a Father 
and Ave apiece, for the good of their sowls ; when 
this was done, they all raised the keena, stooping 
over them at a half bend, clapping their hands, 



Larry McFarUnicV s Wak:. 263 

and praising them as far as they could say an}^- 
thing good of them ; and, indeed, the crathurs, 
they Avere never any one's enemy but their own, 
so that nobody could say an ill-word of either of 
them. Bad luck to it forpotteen-work every day 
it rises ! only for it, that couple's poor orphans 
wouldn't be left wdthout father or mother as 
they were ; nor poor Hurrish go the gray gate he 
did, if he had his father living, may be : but, hav- 
ing nobody to bridle him in, he took to horse- 
riding for the squire, -and then to staling them for 
himself. He v/as hanged afterwards, along with 
Peter Doraghy C roily, that shot Ned Wilson's 
uncle of the Black Hills. 

After the first keening, the friends and neigh- 
bors took their sates about the corpse. In a short 
time, whiskey, pipes, snuff, and tobacco came, and 
.every one about the place got a glass and a fresh ' 
pipe. Tom, when he held his glass in his hand, 
looking at his dead brother, filled up to the eyes, 
and couldn't for some time get out a word ; at 
last, when he was able to spake, " Poor Larrj^," 
sa}' s he, '' you're h^ing there low before me, and 
many a happy day we spint with one another. 
When \ve were childher," said he, turning to the 
rest, " we were never asunder ; he was oulder nor 
me by two years, and can I ever forget the 
leathering he gave Dick Rafiferty long ago, for 
hitting me with the rotten ^gg, although Dick 
was a great dale bigger than either of us ? God 
knows, although 3'ou didn't thrive in life, either 



264 I^Gilf Hours zvith Irish AntJiors. 

of you, as you might and could have done, there 
wasn't a more neighborly or friendly couple in 
the parish they lived in ; and now God help them 
both and their poor orphans over them ! Larry, 
acushla, your health, and Sally, yours ; and may 
God Almighty have marcy on both your sowls !" 

After this, the neighbors began to flock in 
more generally. When any reJation of the corpses 
would come, as soon, you see, as they'd get inside 
the door, whether man or woman, they'd raise 
the shout of a keena, and all the people about the 
dead would begin along with them, stooping over 
them and clapping their hands as before. 

Well, I said, it's it that was the merry Avake, 
and that was onl}^ the thruth, neighbors. As soon 
as night came, all the young boys and girls from 
the countrj^-side about them flocked to it in 
scores. In a short time the house was crowded ; 
and may be there wasn't laughing, and story-tell- 
ing, and singing, and smoking, and drinking, and 
crying — all going on, helter-skelter, together. 
When they'd be all in full chorus this way, may 
be some new friend or relation that wasn't there 
before would come in and raise the keena ; of 
coorse the youngsters would then keep quiet ; 
and if the person coming in was from the one 
neighborhood with any of them that were so 
merry, as soon as he'd raise the shout the merry 
folks would rise up, begin to pelt their hands 
together, and cry along with him till their eyes 
would be as red as a ferret's. That once over. 



Larry Mc Far land's Wake, 26$ 

they'd be down again at the songs, and divarsion, 
and divilment, just as if nothing of the kind had 
taken place; the other would then shake hands 
with the friends of the corpses, get a glass or two, 
and a pipe, and in a few minutes be as merry as 
the best of them. 

" Well," said Andy Morrow, *' I should like to 
knoAv if the Scotch and English are such heerum- 
skeerum kind of people as we Irishmen are ? " 

'^Musha, in throth I'm sure they're not," says 
Nancy ; " for I believe that Irishmen are like no- 
body in the wide world but themselves ; quare 
crathurs that'll laugh, or cry, or fight with any 
one, just for nothing else, good or bad, but com- 
pany." 

Indeed, and you all know that what I'm say- 
ing's thruth, except Mr. Morrow there that I'm 
telling it to bekase he's not in the habit of going 
to wakes ; although, to do him justice, he's very 
friendly in going to a neighbor's funeral ; and, in- 
deed, kind fat/ier for fou,^ Mr. Morrow, for it's he 
that was a real good hand at going to such places 
himself. 

Well, as I was telling you, there was great 
sport going on. In one corner, you might see a 
knot of ould men sitting together, talking over 
ould times — ghost-stories, fairy-tales, or the great 
rebellion of '41, and the strange story of Lamh 
Dearg, or the bloody hand — that may be I'll tell 



* That is, in this point you are of the same kind as your father ; possessing 
that prominent trait in his disposition or character. 



266 Half Hours zuith Irish Authors. 

yoM all some other night, plase God ; there they'd 
sit smoking — their faces quite plased with the 
pleasure of the pipe — amusing themselves and a 
crowd of people that would be listening to them 
with open mouth. Or, it's odds, but there would 
be some droll young fellow among them taking a 
rise out of them ; and, positivel}^ he'd often find 
them able enough for him, particularly old Ned 
INIangin that wanted at the time only four years 
of a hundred. The Lord be good to him, and 
rest his sowl in glory ! it's he that was the pleas- 
ant ould man, and could tell a story with any 
one that ever got up. 

In another corner, there was a different set, 
bent on some piece of divilment of their own. 
The boys would be sure to get beside their sweet- 
hearts, anyhow ; and, if there was a purty girl, as 
you may set it down there was, it's there the 
skroodging'-^ and the pushing, and the shoving, 
and sometimes the knocking down itself would 
be about seeing who'd get her. There's ould 
Katty Duffy, that's now as crooked *as the hind 
leg of a dog, and it's herself was then as straight 
as a rush, and as blooming as a rose — Lord bless 
us ! what an alteration time makes upon the 
strongest and fairest of us ! — it's she that was the 
purty girl that night, and it's m3^self that gave 
Frank M'Shane, that's still alive to acknowledge 
it, the broad of his back upon the flure when he 
thought to pull her off my knee. The very gor- 

♦The pressure in a crowd. 



Larry McFarland' s Wake. 267 

soons and girshas were coorting away among 
themselves, and learning one another to smoke in 
the dark corners. But all this, Mr. Morrow, took 
place in the corpse-house, before ten or eleven 
o'clock at night ; after that time, the house got 
too throng entirely, and couldn't hould the half of 
them ; so, by jing, off we set, maning all the 
youngsters of us, both boys and girls, out to 
Tom's barn that was redf^ up for us there, to com- 
mence the plays. When we were gone, the ould 
people had more room, and they moved about on 
the sates we had left them. In the manetime, 
lashings of tobacco and snuff, cut in platefuls, 
and piles of fresh new pipes, were laid on the 
table for any one that wished to use them. 

When we got to the barn, it's then we took our 
pumps off\ in airnest — by the hokey, such sport 
you nev-er saw. The first play we began was 
Hot-loof ; and may be there wasn't skelping then. 
It was the two parishes of Errigle-Keeran and 
Errigle-Truagh against one another. There was 
the Slip from Althadhawan for Errigle-Truagh, 
against Pat M'Ardle, that had married Lanty 
Gorman's daughter of Cargach, for Errigle-Kee- 
ran. The way they play it, Mr. Morrow, is this : 
Two young men out of each parish go out upon 
the flure ; one of them stands up, then bends him- 
self, sir, at a naif bend, placing his left hand be- 
hind on the back part of his ham, keeping it there 
to receive what it's to get. Well, there he stands, 

♦ Cleared up— set in order. + Threw aside all restraint. 



268 Hcilf Hours with Irish AiUJiors. 

and the other, coming behind him, places his left 
foot out before him, doubles up the cuff of his 
coat, to give his hand and wrist freedom ; he 
then rises his right arm, coming down with the 
heel of his hand upon the other fellow's palm 
under him with full force. By jing, it's the 
divil's own divarsion ; for you might as well get 
a stroke of a sledge as a blow from one of them 
able, hard-working fellows, with hands upon them 
like lime^one. When the fellow that's down 
gets it hot and heavy, the man that struck him 
stands bent in his place, and some friend of the 
other comes down upon him, and pays him for 
what the other fellow got. 

The next play they went to was the Sitting 
Brogue. This is played by a ring of them sitting 
down upon the bare ground, keeping their knees 
up. A shoemaker's leather apron is then got, or 
a good stout brogue, and sent round under their 
knees. In the manetime, one stands in the mid- 
dle ; and, after the brogue is sent round, he is to 
catch it as soon as he can. While he stands there, 
of coorse his back must be to some one, and ac- 
cordingly those that are behind him thump him 
right and left with the brogue, while he all the 
time is trying to catch it. Whoever he catches 
this brogue with must stand up in his place, 
while he sits down where the other had been, and 
then the flay goes on as before, 

There'j another play called the Standing Brogue 
— where jne man gets a brogue of the same 



Larry McFarland^ s Wake. 269 

Kind, and another stands up facing him with his 
hands locked together, forming an arch turned 
upside down. The man that houlds the brogue 
then strikes him with it betune the hands ; and 
even the smartest fellow receives several pelts be- 
fore he is able to close his hands and catch, it ; 
but when he does, he becomes brogueman, and 
the man who held the brogue stands for him until 
he catches it. The same thing is gone through, 
from one to another, on each side, until it is 
over. 

The next is Frimsy Framsy, and is played in 
this manner: a chair or stool is placed in the 
middle of the flure, and the man who manages 
the pla}^ sits down upon it, and calls his sweet- 
heart, or the prettiest girl in the house. She ac- 
cordingly com.es forward, and must kiss him. 
He then rises up, and she sits down. '' Come 
now," he sa3^s, '' fair maid — Frivisy Franisy, who's 
your fancy ? " She then calls them she likes best, 
and, when the young man she calls comes over 
and kisses her, he then takes her place, and calls 
another girl — and so on, smacking away for a 
couple of hours. Well, throth, it's no wonder that 
Ireland's full of people ; for I believe they do 
nothing but coort from the time they're the 
hoight of my leg. I dunna is it true, as I hear 
Captain Sloethorn's steward say, that the English- 
women are so fond of Irishmen ? 

" Well," said Andy Morrow, " have you any 
more of their sports, Tom ? " 



270 Half Hotirs with Irish Authors. 

** Ay have I ; one of the best and pleasantest 
you heard yet." 

*' I hope there's no more coorting in it," says 
Nancy. *' God knows, we're tired of their kissing 
an* marrying." 

" Were you always so ? " says Ned, across the 
fire to her. 

'' Behave yourself, Ned," says she; ** d.Qx\tyou 
make me spake; sure you were set down as the 
greatest brine-oge that was ever known in the 
parish for such things." 

" No ; but don't you make me spake," replies 
Ned. 

'' Here, Biddy," said Nancy, '* bring that uncle 
of yours another pint; that's what he wants most 
at the present time, I'm thinking." 

Biddy accordingly complied with this. 

** Don't make me spake," continued Ned. 

'' Come, Ned," she replied, " you've a fresh 
pint now ; so drink it, and give no more gos- 
thery^ 

*' Shuid-urth ! " f says Ned, putting the pint to 
his head, and winking slyly at the rest. 

''Ay, wink; in troth I'll be up to you for that, 
Ned," says Nancy, by no means satisfied that 
Ned should enter into particulars. " Well, Tom," 
says she, diverting the conversation, " go on, and 
give us the remainder of your wake." 

Well, says Tom, the next play is in the mil- 

* Idle talk— gossip. 

t Shuid-urth— This to you, or upon you ; a form of drinking healths. 



Larry Mc Far land' s Wake. 271: 

intary line. You see, Mr. Morrow, the man that 
leads the sports places them all on their sates, gets 
from some of the girls a white handkerchief, 
which he ties round his hat as you would tie a 
piece of mourning ; he then walks round them 
two or three times singing — ■ 

Will you list and come with me, fair maid? 
Will you list and come with me, fair maid? 
Will you list and come with me, fair maid, 
And folly the lad with the white cockade ? 

When he sings this, he takes off his hat, and puts 
it on the head of the girl he likes best, who rises 
up and puts her arm round him, and then they 
both go about in the same way, singing the same 
words. She then puts the hat on some young 
man, who gets up and goes round with them sing- 
ing as before. He next puts it on the girl he loves 
best, who, after singing and going round in the 
same manner, puts it on another, and he on his 
sweetheart, and so on. This is called the White 
Cockade. When it's all over, that is, when every 
young man has pitched upon the girl that he 
wishes to be his sweetheart, they sit down, and 
sing songs, and coort, as they did at the marrying. 
After this comes the Weds ox Forfeits, or what 
they call putting round the button. Every one 
gives in a forfeit — the boys a neck-handkerchief or 
a pen-knife, and the girls a pocket-handkerchief 
or something that way. The forfeit is held over 
them, and each of them stoops in turn. They are 



2/2 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

then compelled to command the person that owns 
that forfeit to sing a song, to kiss such and such 
a girl, or to carry some ould man. with his legs 
about their neck three times around the house, 
and this last is always great fun. Or may be a 
young, upsetting fellow will be sent to kiss some 
toothless, slavering ould woman, just to punish 
him ; or, if a young woman is any way saucy, 
she'll have to kiss some ould, withered fellow, his 
tongue hanging with age half-way down his chin, 
and the tobacco-water trickling from each corner 
of his mouth. 

By jingo, many a time when the friends of the 
corpse would be breaking their very hearts with 
grief and affliction I have seen them obligated to 
laugh out in spite of themselves, at the drollery 
of the mock priest, with his ould black coat and 
wig upon him • and, when the laughing-fit would 
be over, to see them rocking themselves again 
with the sorrow — so sad. The best man for man- 
aging such sports in this neighborhood for many 
a year was Roger M'Cann, that lives up as you 
go to the mountains. You wouldn't begrudge to 
go ten miles the coldest winter night that ever 
blew, to see and hear Roger. 

There's another play that they call the Priest 
of the Parish, which is remarkably pleasant. One 
of the bo3^s gets a wig upon himself, as before, 
goes out on the flure, places the boys in a row, 
calls one his ina?i Jack, and says to each, *' What 
will you be ? " One answers, " I'll be black cap''; 



Larry McFarland' s Wahe. 273 

another, ^'^ red cap'' ; and so on. He then says, 
" The priest of the parish has lost his considhering 
cap — some says this and some saj^s that, but I say 
my man Jack ! " Man Jack, then, to put it off 
himself, saj^s, " Is it me, sir?" ''Yes, you, sir! " 
"You lie, sir!" "Who then, sir?" '•'Blackcap!" If 
black cap then doesn't sa}^ " Is it me, sir ?" before 
the priest has time to call him, he must put his 
hand on his ham, and get a pelt of the brogue. A 
body must be supple with the tongue in it. 

After this comes one they call Horns, or the 
Painter. A droll fellow gets a lump of soot or 
lampblack, and, after fixing a ring of the boys and 
girls about him, he laj^s his two fore-fingers on his 
knees, and says, " Horns, horns, cow-horns !" and 
then raises his fingers by a jerk up above his 
head ; the boys and girls in the ring then do the 
same, for the meaning of the play is this; the 
man with the black'ning always raises his finger 
every time he names an animal ; but if he names 
any that has 710 horns, and that the others jerk up 
their fingers, then they must get a stroke over the 
face with the soot. " Horns, horns, goat-horns! " 
then he ups with his finger like lightning ; they 
must all do the same, bekase a goat has horns. 
" Horns, horns, horse-horns ! " — he ups with them 
again, but the bo3^s and girls ought not, bekase a 
horse has not horns ; however, any one that raises 
them thejiy gets a slake. So that it all comes to 
this: any one, you see, that lifts his finger when 
an animal is named that has no horns, or any one 



274 Half Hours ivith Irish Atithors, 

that does 7iot raise them when a baste is mintioned 
that has horns, will get a mark. It's a purty 
game, and requires a keen eye and a quick hand ; 
and may be there's not fun in straiking the soot 
over the purty, warm, rosy cheeks of the colleens, 
while their eyes are dancing with delight in their 
heads, and their sweet breath comes over so plea- 
sant about one's face, the darlings ! — och ! och ! 

There's another game they call the Silly ould 
Man that's played this way : a ring of the boys 
and girls is made on the flure — boy and girl about 
— holding one another by the hands ; well and 
good. A young fellow gets into the middle of the 
ring, as " the silly ould man." There he stands look- 
ing at all the girls, to choose a wife, and, in the 
manetime, the youngsters of the ring sing out — 

Here's a silly ould man that lies all alone. 

That lies all alone, 

That lies all alone, 
Here's a silly ould man that lies all alone, 
He wants a wife, and he can get none. 

When the boys and girls sing this, the silly 
ould man must choose a wife from some of the 
colleens belonging to the ring. Having made 
choice of her, she goes into the ring along with 
bim, and they all sing out — 

Now, young couple, you're married together, 

You're married together. 

You're married together. 
You must obey )^our father and mother. 
And love one another like sister and brother — 
I pray, young couple, you'll kiss together! 



Larry McFarlmid' s Wake. 275 

And you may be s-ure this part of the marriage is 
not missed, anyway. 

" I doubt," said Andy Morrow, "that good can't 
come of so much kissing, marrying, and coort- 
mg. 

The narrator twisted his mouth knowingly, and 
gave a significant groan. 

''Be dhe Jmsth^^ hould your tongue, Misther 
Morrow," said he. ** Biddy avourneen," he con- 
tinued, addressing Biddy and Bessy, ** and Bessy, 
alannah, just take a friend's advice, and never 
mind going to wakes ; to be sure, there's plinty 
of fun and divarsion at such places, but — healths 
apiece !" putting the pint to his lips — *' and that's 
all I say about it." 

** Right enough, Tom," observed Shane Fadh. 
" Sure most of the matches are planned at them, 
and, I may say, mosl of the riinaivays, too — poor 
young, foolish crathurs, going off and getting 
themselves married, then bringing small, help- 
less families upon their hands, without money or 
manes to begin the world with, and afterwards 
likely to eat one another out of the face for their 
folly ; however, there's no putting ould heads 
upon young shoulders, and I doubt, except the 
wakes are stopped altogether, that it'll be the 
ould case still." 

" I never remember being at a counthry wake," 
said Andy Morrow. '' How is everything laid 
out in the house?" 

* The translation follows it above. 



276 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors, 

Sure it's to you I'm telling the whole stor}^ 
INIr. Morrow; these thieves about me here know 
all about it as well as I do — the house, eh? Why, 
you see, the two corpses were stretched beside 
one another, w^ashed, and laid out. There were 
long deal boords, w^ith their ends upon two stools, 
laid over the bodies ; the boords v/ere covered 
with a white sheet got at the big house, so the 
corpses wern't to be seen. On these, again, v/ere 
placed large mould candles, plates of cut tobacco, 
pipes, and snuff, and so on., Sometimes corpses 
are waked in a bed, with their faces visible ; when 
that is the case, white sheets, crosses, and some- 
times flowers are pinned up about the bed, except 
in the front ; but when they're undher boord, a 
set of ould women sit smoking and rocking them- 
selves from side to side, quite sorrowful — these 
are kceiicrs — friends or relations ; and when every 
one connected with the dead comes in, they raise 
the keene, like a song oi sorrovv^ Vv ailing and clap- 
ping their hands. 

The furniture is mostly removed, and sates 
made round the walls, Avhere the neighbors sit 
smoking, chatting, and gosthering. The best of 
aiting and dhrinking that they can afford is pro- 
vided ; and, indeed, there is generally open house, 
for it's unknown how people injure themselves by 
their kindness and waste at christening, weddings, 
and wakes. 

In regard to poor Larry's wake — we had all 
this, and more at it ; for, as I obsarved a while 



Larry Mc Far land's Wake, 277 

agone, the man had made himself no friends when 
he was living, and the neighbors gave a loose to 
all kinds of divilment when he was dead. Al- 
though there's no man would be guilty of any 
disrespect where the dead are, yet, when a person 
has led a good life, and conducted themselves 
dacently and honestly, the young people of the 
neighborhood show their respect by going through 
their little plays and divarsions quieter and with 
less noise, lest they may give any offince ; but, as 
I said, whenever the person didn't live as they 
ought to do, there's no stop to their noise and 



rollikinf'^ 



When it drew near morning, every one of us 
took his sweetheart, and, after convoying her 
home, we went to our own houses to get a 
little sleep. So that was the end of poor Larry 
McFarland and his wife Sally Lowry. 

'' Success, Tom !" said Bill M'Kinny; ''take a 
pull of the malt now, afther the story, your soul ! 
But what was the funeral like ?" 

" Why, then, a poor berrin it was," said Tom 
"a miserable sight, God knows— just a few of the 
neighbors ; for those that used to take his thrate, 
and while he had a shilling in his pocket blarney 
him up, not one of the skulking thieves showed 
their faces at it— a good warning to foolish men 
that throw their money down throats that haven't 
hearts anundher them. But, boys, / desarve 
another thrate, I think, afther my story !" This, 

* Uproariousness. 



278 Half Hours zviih Irish Authors, i 

j 
we need scarcely add, he was supplied with, and, ; 

after some further desultory chat, they again ; 

separated, with the intention of reassembling at ' 

Ned's on the following night. 1 




CHARLES LEVER. 



Charles Lever. 



THE DOCTOR'S TALE; 



IT is now fifteen years since — if it wasn't for 
O'Shaiighnessy's wrinkles, I could not believe 
it five — we were quartered in Loughrea ; there 
were, besides our regiment, the Fiftieth, and the 
Seventy-third, and a troop or two of horse-artil- 
lery, and the whole town was literally a barrack, 
and, as you may suppose, the pleasantest place 
imaginable. All the young ladies, and indeed all 
those that had got their brevet some years before, 
came flocking into the town, not knowing but the 
devil might persuade a raw ensign or so to marry 
some of them. 

Such dinner parties, such routs, and balls never 
were heard of west of Athlone. The gaieties 
were incessant ; and, if good feeling, plenty of 
claret, short whist, country dances, and kissing 
could have done the thing, there wouldn't have 

* I cannot permit the reader to fall into the same blunder with regard to the 
worthy "Maurice" that my friend Charles O'Malky has done. It is only 
fair to state that the doctor, in the following tale, was hoaxing the dragoon. 
A braver and a better fellow than Quill never existed; equally beloved by 
his brother officers, as delighted in for his convivial talents. His favorite 
amusement was to invent some story or adventure, in which, mixing up his 
own name with that of some friend or companion, the veracity of the whole 
was never questioned. Of this nature was the pedigree he devised in the 
last chapter to impose upon O'Malley, who believed implicity all he told 
him. H. L. 



282 Half Hotirs zvith Irish Authors. 

been a bachelor with a red coat for six miles 
around. 

You know the west, O'Mealy, so I needn't tell 
3^ou what the Galvvay girls are like ; fine, hearty, 
free-and-easy, talking, laughing devils, but as 
deep and as cute as a master in chancery ; ready 
for any fun or merriment, but always keeping a 
sly lookout for a proposal or a tender acknow- 
ledgment, which — what between the heat of a 
ball-room, whiskey-negus, white satin shoes, and 
a quarrel with 3^our guardian — it's ten to one you 
fall into before you're a week in the same town 
with them. 

As for the men, I don't admire them so much ; 
pleasant and cheerful enough, when the3'''re handi- 
capping the coat off your back and your new til- 
bury for a spavined pony and a cotton umbrella, 
but regular devils if you come to cross them the 
least in life ; nothing but ten paces — three shots 
apiece — to begin and end with soniething like 
Roger de Coverly, when every one has a pull at 
his neighbor. I'm not saying they're not agree- 
able, well informed, and mild in their habits ; but 
they lean overmuch to corduroys and coroner's 
inquests for one's taste further south. However, 
they're a fine people, take them all in all ; and, if 
they were not interfered with, and their national 
customs invaded with road-making, petty sessions, 
grand-jury laws, and a stray commission now and 
then, they are capable of great things and would 
astonish the world. 



The Doctor's Tale. 283 

But, as I was saying, we were ordered to 
Loughrea, after being fifteen months in detach- 
ments about Biri, Tullamore, Kilbeggan, and all 
that country ; the change was indeed a delightful 
one, and we soon found ourselves the centre of 
the most marked and determined civilities. I told 
you they were wise people in the west ; this was 
their calculation ; the line — ours was the Ros- 
common militia — are here to-day, there to-mor- 
row ; they may be flirting in Tralee this week, 
and fighting on the Tagus the next'; not that there 
was any fighting there in those times, but then 
there was always Nova Scotia, and St. John's, 
and a hundred other places that a Gal way young 
lady knew nothing about, except that people 
never came back from them. Now, what good, 
what use was there in falling in love with them, 
mere transitory and passing pleasures that was ? 
But as for us, there we were ; if not in Kilkenny, 
we were in Cork. Save cut and come again, no 
getting away under pretence of foreign service ; 
no excuse for not marrying by any cruel pictures 
of the colonies, where they make spatch-cocks of 
the officers' wives, and scrape their infant families 
to death with a small tooth comb. In a word, 
my dear O'Mealey, we were at a high premium ; 
and even O'Shaughnessy, with his red head and 
the legs you see, had his admirers — there now, 
don't be angr)^, Dan, the men, at least, were 
mighty partial to you. 

Loughrea, if it was a pleasant, was a very ex- 



284 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 

pensive place. White gloves and car-hire — there 
wasn't a chaise in the town — short whist, too 
(God forgive me, if I wrong them ! but 1 wonder 
were they honest ?), cost money ; and as our pop- 
ularity rose our purses fell, till at length, when 
the one was at the flood, the other was something 
very like low water: 

Now, the Roscommon was a beautiful corps ; 
no petty jealousies, no little squabbling among 
the officers, no small spleen between the major's 
wife and the paymaster's sister ; all was amiable, 
kind, brotherly, and affectionate. To proceed. I 
need only mention one fine trait of them — no man 
ever refused to endorse a brother officer's bill. 
To think of asking the amount, or even the date, 
would be taken personally ; and thus we went on 
mutually aiding and assisting each other, the 
colonel drawing on me, I on the major, the sen- 
ior captain on the surgeon, and so on, a regular 
cross-fire of " promises to pa}^" all stamped and 
regular. 

Not but that the system had its inconveniences ; 
for sometimes an obstinate tailor or bootmaker 
would make a row for his money, and then we'd 
be obliged to get up a little quarrel between the 
drawer and accepter of the bill ; they couldn't 
speak for some days ; and a mutual friend to both 
would tell the creditor that the slightest impru- 
dence on his part would lead to bloodshed ; and 
— the Lord help him ! — if there was a duel, he'd be 
proved the whole cause of it. This and twenty 



TJie Doctor s Tale, 285 

other plans were employed, and finally the mat- 
ter would be left to arbitration among- our brother 
officers ; and, I need not say, they behaved like 
trumps. But, notwithstanding- all this, we were 
frequently hard pressed for cash ; as the colonel 
said, " It's a mighty expensive corps." Our dress 
was costly, not that it had much lace and gold on 
it, but that, what between faUing on the road at 
night, shindies at mess, and other devilment, a 
coat lasted no time. Wine, too, w^as heavy on 
us ; for, though we often changed our wine mer- 
chant, and rarely paid him, there was an awful 
consumption at the mess ! 

Now, what I have mentioned may prepare you 
for the fact that, before we were eight weeks in 
garrison, Shaugh and myself, upon an accurate 
calculation of our conjoint finances, discovered 
that, except some vague promises of discounting 
here and there through the town, and seven and 
fourpence in specie, we were innocent of any pe- 
cuniary treasures. This was embarrassing ; we 
had both embarked in several small schemes of 
pleasurable amusement — had a couple of hunters 
each, a tandem, and a running account — I think it 
galloped — at every shop in the town. 

Let me pause for a moment here, O'Mealey, 
while I moralize a little in a strain I hope may 
benefit you. Have you ever considered — of 
course you have not, you're too young and unre- 
flecting — how beautifully every climate and every 
soil possesses some one antidote or another to its 



286 Half Hours with Irish Authors, 

own noxious influences? The tropics have their 
succulent and juicy fruits, cooling and refreshing ; 
the northern latitudes have their beasts with fur 
and warm skins to keep out the frost-bites ; and so 
it is in Ireland. Nowhere on the face of the habi- 
table globe does a man contract such habits of 
small debt, and nowhere, I'll be sworn, can he so 
easily get out of any scrape concerning them. 
They have their tigers in the east, their antelopes 
in the south, their white bears in Norway, their 
buffaloes in America ; but we have an animal in 
Ireland that beats them all hollow — a country at- 
torney. 

Now, let me introduce you to Mr. Matthew 
Donevan. Mat, as he was familiarly called by 
his numerous acquaintances, was a short, florid, 
rosy little gentleman, of some four or five and 
forty, with a well-curled wig of the fairest imagin- 
able auburn, the gentle wave of the front locks 
which played in infantine loveliness upon his little 
bullet forehead contrasting strongly enough with 
a cunning leer of his eye, and a certain nisi prius 
laugh that, however it might please a client, 
rarely brought pleasurable feelings to his oppo- 
nent in a cause. 

Mat was a character in his way ; deep, double, 
and tricky in everything that concerned his pro- 
fession, he affected the gay fellow — liked a jolly 
dinner at Brown's hotel, would go twenty miles 
to see a steeple-chase and a coursing-match, bet 
with any one when the odds were strong in his 



The Doctor s Tale. 287 

favor, with an easy indifference about money that 
made him seem, when winning, rather the victim 
of good Juck than anything else. As he kept a 
rather pleasant bachelor's house, and liked the 
military much, we soon became acquainted. 
Upon him, therefore, for reasons I can't explain, 
both our hopes reposed ; and Shaugh and myself 
at once agreed that, if Mat could not assist us in 
our distresses, the 'case was a bad one. 

A pretty little epistle was accordingly con- 
cocted, inviting the worthy attorney to a small 
dinner at five o'clock the next day, intimating 
that we were to be perfectly alone, and had a 
little business to discuss. True to the hour. Mat 
was there, and, as if instantly guessing that ours 
was no party of pleasure, his look, dress, and man- 
ner were all in keeping with the occasion — quiet, 
subdued, and searching. 

When the claret had been superseded by the 
whiskey, and the confidential hours were ap- 
proaching, by an adroit allusion to some heavy 
wager then pending we brought our finances upon 
the tapis. The thing was done beautifully ; an easy 
adagio movement — no violent transition — but hang 
me if old Mat didn't catch the matter at once. 

" Oh ! it's there ye are, captain," said he, with 
his peculiar grin ; ** two and sixpence in the 
pound, and no assets." 

*' The last is nearer the mark, my old boy," said 
Shaugh, blurting out the whole truth at once. 
The wily attorney finished his tumbler slowly, as if 



288 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors, 

giving himself time for reflection, and then, smack- 
ing his lips in a preparatory manner, took a quick 
survey of the room with his piercing green eye. 

*' A very sweet mare of yours that little mouse- 
colored one is, with the dip in the back; and she 
has a trifling curb — may be it's a spavin, indeed — 
in the near hind leg. You gave five and twenty 
for her, now, I'll be bound ? " 

''Sixty guineas, as sure as my name's Dan!" 
said Shaugh, not at all pleased at the value put 
upon his hackney ; "■ and, as to spavin or curb, I'll 
wager double the sum she has neither the slight- 
est trace of one nor the other." 

'Til not take the bet," said Mat dryly; 
" money's scarce in these parts." 

This hit silenced us both, and our friend con- 
tinued : 

'* Then there's the bay horse, a great strapping, 
leggy beast he is for a tilbur}^ ; and the hunters, 
worth nothing here ; they don't know this coun- 
try — them's neat pistols — and the tilbury is not 
bad—" 

" Confound you ! " said I, losing all patience. 
" We didn't ask you here to appraise our mov- 
ables ; we want to raise the wind without that." 

" I see — I perceive," said Mat, taking a pinch 
of snufF very leisurely as he spoke — " I see. Well, 
that is difficult, very difficult just now. I've 
mortgaged every acre of ground in the two coun- 
ties near us, and a sixpence more is not to be had 
that way. Are you lucky at the races ? " 



The Doctor s Tale, 289 

" Never win a sixpence." 

" What can you do at whist ? " 

" Revoke, and get cursed by my partner; devil 
a more." 

" That's mighty bad, for otherwise we might 
arrange something for you. Well, I only see one 
thing for it ; you must marry ; a wife with some 
money will ^^t you out of your present difficul- 
ties, and we'll manage that easily enough." 

*' Come, Dan," said I, for Shaugh was dropping 
asleep, " cheer up, old fellow ! Donevan has found 
the way to pull us through our misfortunes. A 
girl with forty thousand pounds, the best cock- 
shooting in Ireland, an old family, a capital cel- 
lar, all await ye — rouse up there ! " 

'Tm convanient," said Shaugh, with a look in- 
tended to be knowing, but really very tipsy. 

" I didn't say much for her personal attrac- 
tions, captain," said Mat ; '' nor, indeed, did I spe- 
cify the exact sum ; but Mrs. Rogers Dooley, of 
Clonakilty, might be a princess — " 

'' And so she shall be. Mat ; the O'Shaughnes- 
sys were kings of Ennis in the time of Nero ; and 
I'm only waiting for a trifle of money to revive 
the title. What's her name ? " 

" Mrs. Rogers Dooley." 

" Here's her health, and long life to her — 

' And may the devil cut the toes 
Of all her foes, 
That we may know them by their limping."* 

This benevolent wish uttered, Dan fell flat 



290 Half Hours zuith Irish Authors. 

upon the hearth-rug", and was soon sound asleep. 
I must hasten on ; so need only say that, before 
we parted that night, INIat and myself had finished 
the half-gallon bottle of Loughrea whiskey, and 
concluded a treaty for the hand and fortune of 
Mrs. Rogers Dooley ; he being guaranteed a very 
handsome percentage on the property, and the 
lady being reserved for choice between Dan and 
mj^self, which, however, I was determined should 
fall upon m}^ more fortunate friend. 

The first object which presented itself to my 
aching senses the following morning was a very 
spacious card of invitation from Mr. Jonas Malone, 
requesting me to favor him with the seductions of 
my society the next evening at a ball ; at the bot- 
tom of which, in I\Ir. Donevan's hand, I read : 

" Don't fail ; you know who is to be there. 
I've not been idle since I saw 3^ou. Would the 
captain take tv/enty-five for the mare ?" 

So far so good, thought I, as, entering 
O'Shaughnessy's quarters, I discovered him 
endeavoring to spell out his card, which, however, 
had no postscript. We soon agreed that Mat 
should have his price ; so, sending a polite answer 
to the invitation, we despatched a still more civil 
note to the attorney, and begged of him, as a weak 
mark oT esteem, to except the mouse-colored 
mare as a present. 

Here O'Shaughnessy sighed deeply, and even 
seemed affected by the souvenir. 

'' Come, Dan, we did it all for the best. O 



The Doctor s Tale, 291 

O'Mealey, he was a cunning fellow^but no 
matter. We went to the ball, and, to be sure, it 
was a gfeat sight. Two hundred and fifty souls, 
where there was not good room for the odd fifty ; 
such laughing, such squeezing, such pressing of 
hands and waists in the staircase ! And then such 
a row and riot at the top — four fiddles, a key bugle, 
and a bagpipe playing '' Haste to the wedding," 
amid the crash of refreshment trays, the tramp of 
feet, and the sounds of merriment on all sides ! 

It's only in Ireland, after all, people have fun. 
Old and young, merry and morose, the gay and 
cross-grained — are crammed into a lively country 
dance ; and, ill-matched, ill-suited, go jigging 
away together to the blast of a bad band, till their 
heads, half turned b}^ the noise, the heat, the 
novelty, and the hubbub, they all get as tipsy as 
if they were really deep in liquor. 

Then there is that particularly free-and-easy 
tone in every one about ; here go a couple caper- 
ing daintily out of the ball-room to take a little 
fresh air on the stairs, where every step has its 
own separate flirtation party ; there a riotous old 
gentleman, v/ith a boarding-school girl for his 
partner, has plunged smack into a party at loo, 
upsetting cards and counters, and drawing down 
curses innumerable; here are a merry knot 
round the refreshments, and well they may be ; 
for the negus is strong punch, and the biscuit is 
tipsy cake — and all this v/ith a running fire of 
good stories, jokes, and witticisms on all sides, in 



292 Half Hours with Irish Authors, 

the laughter at which even the droll-lookmg 
servants join as heartily as the rest. 

We were not long in finding out Mrs.'Rogers, 
who sat in the middle of a very high sofa, with 
her feet just touching the floor. She Avas short, 
fat, wore her hair in a drop, had a species of 
shining-yellow skin, and a turned-up nose, all of 
which were by no means prepossessing. Shaugh 
and myself were too hard-up to be particular, and 
so we invited her to dance alternately for two 
consecutive hours, plying her assiduously with 
negus during the lulls of the music. 

Supper was at last announced, and enabled us 
to recruit for new efforts; and so, after an awful 
consumption of fowl, pigeon-pie, ham, and bran- 
died cherries, Mrs. Rogers brightened up con- 
siderably, and professed her willingness to join the 
dancers. As for us, partly from exhaustion, part- 
ly to stimulate our energies, and in some degree 
to drown reflection, we drank deep, and, when we 
reached the drawing-room, not only the agree- 
able guests themselves, but even the" furniture, the 
venerable chairs, and the stiff'old sofa seemed per- 
forming " Sir Roger de Coverley." How we con- 
ducted ourselves till five in the morning let our 
cramps confess ; for v/e were both bed-ridden for 
ten days after. However, at last, Mrs. Rogers 
gave in ; and, reclining gracefully upon a window- 
seat, pronounced it a most elegant party and 
asked me to look for her shawl. While I peram- 
bulated the staircase with her bonnet on my head, 



TJie Doctor s Tale, 293 

and more wearing apparel than would stock a 
mag-azine, Shaugh was roaring himself hoarse 
calling Mrs. Rogers's coach. 

" Sure, captain," said the lady, with a tender 
leer, ** it's only a chair." 

" And here it is," said I, surveying a very port- 
ly looking old sedan, newly painted and varnished, 
which blocked up half the hall. 

"You'll catch cold, my angel," said Shaugh, in 
a whisper, for he w^as coming it very strong by 
this; ''get into the chair. Maurice, can't you 
find those fellows?" said he to me; for the chair- 
men had gone down-stairs, and were making very 
merry among the servants. 

" She's fast now," said I, shutting the door to. 
" Let us do the gallant thing, and carry her home 
ourselves.' Shaugh thought this a great notion ; 
and, in a minute, we mounted the poles, and sal- 
lied forth, amid a great chorus of laughing from 
all the footmen, maids, and tea-boys that filled the 
passage. 

" The big house v/ith the bow window and 
the pillars, captain," said a fellow, as we issued 
upon our journey. 

" I know it," said I. '' Turn to the left after 
you pass the square." 

" Isn't she heavy ?" said Shaugh, as he meander- 
ed across the narrow street with a sidelong 
motion that must have suggested to our fair 
inside passenger some notions of a sea voyage. I 
truth, I must confess, her progress was rather a 



294 ^^'■'iJf Hours ivith Irish Authors. 

devious one ; now zigzagging- from side to side, 
now getting into a sharp trot, and then suddenly 
puUing up at a dead stop, or running the machine 
chuck against a wall, to enable us to stand still 
and gain breath. 

" Which way now?" cried he, as we swung 
round the angle of the street, and entered the 
large market-place. *' I 'm getting terribly tired." 

'' Never give in, Dan ; think of Clonakilty, 
and the old lady herself" — and here I gave the 
chair a hoist that evidently astonished our fair 
friend, for a very imploring cry issued forth 
immediately after. 

"■ To the right, quick-step, forward — charge !" 
cried I ; and we set off at a brisk trot down a 
steep, narrow lane. 

'' Here it is now — the light in the window ; 
cheer up !" 

As I said this, we came shortly up to a fine, 
portly looking doorway "with great stone pillars 
and cornice. 

" Make yourself at home, Maurice," said he ; 
*^ bring her in." And so saying, we pushed forward, 
for the door was open, and passed boldly into a 
great flagged hall, silent and cold, and dark as 
the night itself. 

<* Are 3^ou sure we're right?" said he. 

'* All right," said I ; *' go ahead." 

And so we did till we came in sight of a small 
candle that burned dimly at a distance from us. 

'' Make for the light," said I ; but, just as I* said 



The Doctor s Tale. 295 

so, Shaugh slipped and fell flat on the flagway ; 
the noise of his fall sent up a hundred echoes in 
the silent building, and terrified us both dread- 
fully ; and, after a minute's pause, by one consent, 
we turned and made for the door, falling almost 
at every step, and frightened out of our senses ; 
we came tumbling together into the porch, and 
out into the street, and never drew breath till we 
reached the barracks. Meanwhile, let me return 
to Mrs. Rogers. The dear old lady, who had 
passed an awful time since she left the ball, had 
just rallied out of a fainting fit when we took to 
our heels ; so, after screaming and crying her best, 
she at last managed to open the top of the chair, 
and, by dint of great exertions, succeeded in forc- 
ing the door, and at length freed herself from 
bondage. She was leisurely groping her way 
round it in the dark, when her lamentations being 
heard without woke up the old sexton of the 
chapel — for it was there we placed her — who, en- 
tering cautiously with a light, no sooner caught a 
glimpse of the great black sedan and the figure 
beside it than he also took to his heels, and ran 
like a madman to the priest's house. 

*' Come, your reverence, come, for the love of 
marcy ! Sure didn't I see him myself? O wirra, 
wirra !" 

"• What is it, ye ould fool ?" said M'Kenny. 

'' It's Father Con Doran, your reverence, that 
was buried last week, and there he is up now, coffin 
and all, saying a midnight mass as lively as ever !" 



296 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors, 

Poor Mrs. Rogers, God help her! It was a 
trying sight for her, when the priest and the two 
coadjutors, and the three little boys and the 
sexton, all came in to lay her spirit ; and the shock 
she received that night they say she never got 
over. 

Need I say, my dear O'Mealey, that our ac- 
quaintance with Mrs. Rogers was closed ? The 
dear woman had a hard struggle for it afterwards : 
her character was assailed by all the elderly 
ladies in Loughrea for going off in our company, 
and her blue satin piped with scarlet, utterly 
ruined by a deluge of holy water bestowed on 
her by the pious sexton. It was in vain that she 
originated twenty different reports to mystify the 
world ; and even ten pounds spent in masses for 
the eternal repose of Father Con Doran only in- 
creased the laughter this unfortunate affair gave 
rise to. As for us, we exchanged into the line, 
and foreign service took us out of the road of 
duns, debts, and devilment, and we soon reform- 
ed, and eschewed such low company. 



THE ADJUTANT'S COURTSHIP. 



IT is now about eight 3^ears, may be ten years, 
since that we were ordered to march from 
Belfast and take up our quarters in London- 
derry. We had not been more than a few weeks 
altogether in Ulster when the order came ; and 
as w^e had been, for the preceding two years, 
doing duty in the south and west, we concluded 
that the island was tolei-ably the same in all parts. 
We opened our campaign in the maiden city ex- 
actly as we had been doing with " unparalleled 
success " in Cashel, Fermoy, Tuam, etc.; that is to 
say, we announced garrison balls, and private 
theatricals ; offered a cup to be ru-n for in steeple- 
chase ; turned out a four-in-hand drag, with mot- 
tled grays ; and brought over two deal boats to 
challenge the north. 

"The i8th found the place stupid," said we. 

To be sure they did ; slow fellows like them 
must find any place stupid. No dinners ; but 
they gave none. No fun ; but they had none in 
themselves. In fact, we knew better ; we under- 
stood how the thing was to be done, and resolved 
that, as a mine of rich ore lay un worked, it Avas 
reserved for us to produce the shining metal that 



298 Half Hours witJi Irish Aiithors, 

others less discernins: bad failed to discover. Lit- 
tie we knew of the matter ; never was there a 
blunder like ours. Were you ever in Derry ? 

*' Never," said the listeners. 

Well, then, let me inform 3^ou that the place has 
its own peculiar features. In the first place, all 
the larg-e towns in the south and west have, be- 
sides the country neighborhood that surrounds 
them, a certain sprinkling of gentlefolk who, 
though with small fortunes and not much usage 
of the world, are still a great accession to societ}^ 
and make up the blank which, even in the most 
thickly peopled country, would be sadly felt 
without them. Now, in Derry, there is none of 
this. After the great guns — and, per Baccho ! 
what great guns are they ! — you have nothing but 
the men engaged in commerce — sharp, clever, 
shrev/d, well-informed fellows ; they are deep in 
flax-seed, cunning in molasses, and not to be ex- 
celled in all that pertains to coffee, sassafras, cin- 
namon, gum, oakum, and elephants' teeth. The 
place is a rich one, and the spirit of commerce is 
felt throughout it. Nothing is cared for, nothing 
is talked of, nothing alluded to, that does not bear 
upon this ; and, in fact, if you haven't a venture 
in Smyrna figs, iNlemel timber, Dutch dolls, or 
some such commodity, you are absolutely noth- 
ing, and might as well be at a ball with a cork 
leg, or go deaf to the opera. 

Now, when I've told this much, I leave you to 
guess what impressions our triumphal entry into 



TJie Adjtitant's Courtship. 299 

the city produced. Instead of the admiring- 
crowds that awaited us elsewhere, as we marched 
gaily into quarters, here we saw nothing but 
grave, sober-looking, and, I confess it, intelligent- 
looking faces, that scrutinized our appearance 
closely enough, but evidently with no great ap- 
proval and less enthusiasm. The men passed 
on hurriedly to their counting-houses and 
the wharfs ; the women, with almost as little 
interest, peeped at us from the windows, and 
w^alked away again. Oh ! how we wished for 
Galway, glorious Galway ! That Paradise of the 
infantry that lies west of the Shannon. Little 
we knew, as we ordered the band, in lively antici- 
pation of the gaieties before us, to strike up 
" Payne's first set," that to the ears of the fair 
listeners in Ship Quay Street the rumble of a 
sugar hogshead, or the crank, crank of a weigh- 
ing-crane, was more delightful music. 

" By Jove," interrupted Power, '' 3'Ou are quite 
right. Women are strongly imitative in their 
tastes. The lovely Italian, whose very costume 
is a natural following of a Raphael, is no more 
like the pretty Liverpool damsel than Genoa is 
to Glassnevin ; and yet what the deuce have 
they, dear souls, with their feet upon the soft car- 
pet, and their eyes upon the pages of Scott or 
Byron, to do with all the cotton or dimity that 
ever was printed? But let us not repine; that 
v^ery plastic character is our greatest blessing." 

'* Fill not so sure that it always exists," said the 



300 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors, 

doctor dubiously, as though his own experience 
pointed otherwise. 

*' Well, go ahead," said the Skipper, who evi- 
dently disliked the digression thus interrupting 
the adjutant's story. 

Well, we marched along, looking right and left 
at the pretty faces — and there was plenty of them, 
too — that a momentary curiosity drew to the win- 
dows ; but, although we smiled, and ogled, and 
leered as only a newly arrived regiment can 
smiie, ogle, or leer, by all that's provoking, we 
might as well have wasted our blandishments 
upon the Presbyterian meeting-house that 
frowned upon us with its high pitched roof and 
round windows. 

'* Droll people these," said one. " Raythur rum 
ones," cried another. ^' The black north, by Jove," 
said a third ; and so we went along to the bar- 
racks, somewhat displeased to think that, though 
the 1 8th were slow, thc}^ might have met their 
match. 

Disappointed as we undoubtedly felt at the 
little enthusiasm that marked our entree, we still 
resolved to persist in our original plan, and, ac- 
cordingly, early the following morning announced 
our intention of giving amateur theatricals. The 
mayor, who called upon our colonel, was the first 
to learn this, and received the information with 
pretty much the same kind of look as the Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury might be supposed to as- 
sume if requested b}^ a friend to ride for the 



The Adjutafif s Courtship. 301 

Derby. The incredulous expression of the poor 
man's face, as he turned from one of us to the 
other, evidently canvassing- in his mind whether 
we might not by some special dispensation of 
Providence be all insane, I shall never forget. 

His visit was a very short one ; whether con- 
cluding that we were not quite safe corppany, or 
whether our notification was too much for his 
nerves, I know not. 

We were not to be balked, however ; our plans 
for gaiety, long planned and conned over, were 
soon announced in aliform ; and, though we made 
efforts alm.ost superhuman in the cause, our plays 
were performed to empty benches, our balls were 
unattended, our picnic invitations politely de- 
clined, and, in a word, all our advances treated 
with a cold and chilling politeness that plainly 
said, " We'll none of you." 

Each day brought some new discomfiture, and, 
as we met at mess, instead of having, as hereto- 
fore, some prospect of pleasure nnd amusement to 
chat over it was only to talk gloomily over our 
miserable failures, and lament the dreary quarters 
that our fates had doomed us to. 

Some months wore on in this fashion, and at 
length — what will not time do? — we began by de- 
grees to forget our woes. Some of us took to 
late hours and brandy and water ; others got sen- 
timental, and wrote journals, and novels, and 
poetry ; some few made acquaintances among the 
towns-people, and cut into a quiet rubber to pass 



302 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 

the evening, while another detachment, among- 
which I was, got up a little love affair to while 
away the tedious hours, and cheat the lazy sun. 

I have already said something of my taste in 
beauty. Now, Mrs. Boggs was exactly the style 
of woman I fancied. She was a widow, she had 
black eyes — not your jet black, sparkling, Dutch- 
doll eyes that roll about and tremble, but mean 
nothing — no ; hers had a soft, subdued, downcast, 
pensive look about them, and w^ere fully as melt- 
ing a pair of orbs as any blue ej^es 3^ou ever 
looked at. 

Then she had a short upper lip, and sweet 
teeth ; by Jove, they were pearls ! and she showed 
them, too, pretty often. Her figure was well 
rounded, plump, and what the French call nette. 
To complete all, her instep and ankle were unex- 
ceptionable ; and, lastly, her jointure w^as seven 
hundred pounds per annum, v/ith a trifle of eight 
thousand more that the late lamented Boggs be- 
queathed when, after four months of uninter- 
rupted bliss, he left Derry for another world. 

When chance first threw me in the way of the 
fair widow, some casual coincidence of opinion 
happened to raise me in her estimation, and I 
soon afterward received an invitation to a small 
evening party at her house, to \vhich I alone of 
the regiment was asked. 

I shall not weary you with the details of my 
intimacy ; it is enough that I tell you I fell des- 
perately in love. I began by visiting twice or 



The Adjutant's Courtship. 303 

thrice a week, and in less than two months spent 
every morning at her house, and rarely left it till 
the " roast beef" announced mess. 

I soon discovered the widow's cue : she was 
serious. Now, I had conducted all manner of 
flirtations in my previous life ; timid young ladies, 
manly young ladies, musical, artistical, poetical, 
anci hysterical. Bless you, I knew them all by 
heart ; but never before had I to deal with a 
serious one, and a widow to boot. The case was 
a trying one. For some weeks it was all very 
up-hill work ; all the red shot of warm affection I 
used to pour in on other occasions was of no use 
here. The language of love, in which I was no 
mean proficient, availed me not. Compliments 
and flatter}^, those rare skirmishers before the 
engagement, were denied me ; and I verily think 
that a tender squeeze of the hand would have 
cost me my dismissal. 

" How very slow all this," thought I, as, at the 
end ot two months' siege, I still found myself 
seated in the trenches, and not a single breach in 
the fortress. " But, to be sure, it's the way they 
have in the north, and one must be patient." 

While thus I was in no very sanguine frame of 
mind as to m}^ prospects, in reality my progress 
was very considerable, having become a member 
of Mr. M'Phun's congregation. I was gradually 
rising in the estimation of the widow and her 
friends, whom my constant attendance at meeting, 
and my very serious demeanor, had so far im- 



304 Half Hours zviih Irish Authors. 

pressed that very grave deliberation was held 
whether I should not be made an elder at the 
next brevet. 

If the Widow Boggs had not been a very love- 
ly and wealthy widow, had she not possessed the 
eyes, lips, hips, ankles, and jointure aforesaid, 
I honestly avow that not the charms of that 
sweet man, Mr. M'Phun's eloquence, nor even 
the flattering distinction in store for me, would 
have induced me to prolong m}^ suit. However, 
I was not going to despair when in sight of land. 
The widow was evidently softened ; a little time 
longer, and the most scrupulous moralist, the 
most rigid advocate for emplo3^ing time wisely, 
could not have objected to my daily S3'Stem of 
courtship. It was none of your sighing, dying, 
ogling, hand-squeezing, waist-pressing, oath- 
swearing, everlasting-adoring affairs, with an in- 
terchange of rings and lockets ; not a bit of it. 
It was confoundedly like a controversial meeting 
at the Rotunda, and I myself had a far gj-eater 
resemblance to Father Tom Maguire than a gay 
Lothario. 

After all, when mess-time came, when the roast 
beef pla3^ed, and we assembled at dinner, and the 
soup and fish had gone rounds with the glasses of 
sherry in, my spirits rallied, and a very jolly 
evening consoled me for all my fatigues and exer- 
tions, and supplied me ^^4th energy for the mor- 
row ; for let me observe here that I only made 
love before dinner. The evenings I reserved foi 



The Adjutanfs Courtship, 305 

myself, assuring Mrs. Boggs that my regimental 
duties required all my time after mess-hour, in 
which I was perfectly correct ; for at six we 
dined, at seven I opened the claret No. i, at 
eight I had uncorked my second bottle, by half- 
past eight I was returning to the sherry, and at 
nine, punctual to the moment, I was returning to 
my quarters on the back of my servant, Tim 
Daly, who had carried me safely for eight years 
without a single mistake, as the fox hunters say. 
This was a way we had in the — th ; every man was 
carried away from mess, some sooner, some later ; 
I was always an early riser, and went betim.es. 

Now, although I had very abundant proof, 
from circumstantial evidence, that I was nightly 
removed from the mess-room to my bed in the 
mode I mention, it would have puzzled me sorely 
to prove the fact in any direct way ; inasmuch as, 
by half-past nine, as the clock chimed, Tim en- 
tered to take me. I was very innocent of all that 
was going on, and, except a certain vague sense 
of regret at leaving the decanter, felt nothing 
whatever. 

It so chanced — what mere trifles are we ruled 
by in our destinies ! — that, just as my suit with the 
widow had assumed its most favorable footing, 
old General Hinks, that commanded the district, 
announced his coming over to inspect our regi- 
ment. Over he came accordingly, and, to be 
sure, we had a day of it. We were paraded for 
six mortal hours ; then we were marching and 



3o6 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors, 

counter-marching ; moving into line, back again 
into column, now forming open column, then into 
square; till at last we began to think that the 
old general was like the Flying Dutchman, and 
was probably condemned to keep on drilling us 
to the day of judgment. To be sure, he enlivened 
the proceeding to me, by pronouncing the regi- 
ment the worst drilled and appointed corps in the 
service, and the adjutant (me!) the stupidest dun- 
derhead — these were his words — he had ever met 
with. 

" Never mind," thought I, " a few da3^s more, 
and it's little I'll care for the eighteen manoeu- 
vres. It's small trouble 3'our eyes right or your 
left shoulders forward will give me. I'll sell out, 
and with the Widow Boggs and seven hundred a 
year — but no matter." 

This confounded inspection lasted till half-past 
five in the afternoon, so that our mess was delayed 
a full hour in consequence, and it was past seven 
as we sat down to dinner. Our faces were grim 
enough as we met together at first ; but what will 
not a good dinner and good wine do for the sur- 
liest party ? By eight o'clock we began to feel 
somewhat more convivially disposed ; and, before 
nine, the decanters were performing a quick-step 
round the table, in a fashion very exhilarating 
and very jovial to look at. 

" No flinching to-night," said the senior major ; 
*' we've had a severe day, let us also have a merry 
evening." 



The Adjutanfs Courtship. 307 

*' By Jove, Ormond," cried another, '' we must 
not leave this to-night. Confound the old hum- 
bugs and their misty whist party, throw them 
over!" 

** I say, Adjutant," said Forbes, addressing me, 
*' you've nothing particular to say to the fair 
widow this evening; you'll not bolt, I hope." 

" That he sha'n't," said one near me ; '' he must 
make up for his absence to-morrow, for to-night 
we all stand fast." 

'' Besides," said another, '' she's at meeting by 
this. Old what-d'ye-call-him is at fourteenthly 
before now." 

'' A note for 3^ou, sir," said the mess waiter, 
presenting me with a rose-colored three-cornered 
billet. It was from la cJiere Boggs herself, and 
ran thus : 

" Dear Sir — Mr. M'Phun and a few friends are 
coming to tea at my house after meeting; per- 
haps 3^ou will also favor us with your compan}^ 
'' Yours truly, Eliza Boggs.' 

What was to be done? Quit the mess, leave a 
jolly party just at the jolliest moment, exchange 
Lafitte and red hermitage for a soiree of elders 
presided over by that sweet man Mr. M'Phun? 
It was too bad ; but then, how much Avas in the 
scale ? What would the widow say if I declined ? 
What would she think ? I well knew that the in- 
vitation meant nothing less than a full-dress pa- 



308 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 

rade of me before her friends, and that to decHne 
was perhaps to forfeit all my hopes in that quarter 
for ever. 

*' Any answer, sir ?" said the waiter. 

** Yes," said I, in a half whisper, " I'll go; tell 
the servant I'll go," 

At this moment, my tender epistle was ab- 
stracted from before me and, ere I turned round, 
had made the tour of half the table. I never per- 
ceived the circumstance, however, and, filling my 
glass, professed my resolve to sit to the last, with 
a mental reserve to take my departure at the very 
first opportunity. Ormond and the paymaster 
quitted the room for a moment, as if to give or- 
ders for a broil at twelve, and now all seemed to 
promise a very convivial and well-sustained party 
for the night. 

'^ Is that all arranged ? " inquired the major, as 
Ormond entered. 

''All right," said he; ''and now let us have a 
bumper and a song. Adjutant, old boy, give us a 
chant." 

" What shall it be, then ? " inquired I, anxious 
to cover my intended retreat by an appearance of 
joviality. 

" Give us — 

* When I was in the Fusileers, 
Some fourteen years ago.' " 

"No, no, confound it! Fve heard nothing else, 
since I joined the regiment. Let us have the 
Paymaster's Daughter." 



The Adjutant'' s Courtship, 309 

"Ah! that's pathetic; I like that," lisped a 
young- ensign. 

" If I'm to have a vote," grunted out the senior 
major, " I pronounce for West India Quarters." 

" Yes, yes," said half a dozen voices together, 
** let's have West India Quarters. Come, give 
him a glass of sherry, and let him begin." 

I had scarcely finished off my glass, and cleared 
my throat for my song, when the clock on the 
chimney-piece chimed half-past nine, and the 
same instant I felt a heavy hand fall upon my 
shoulder; I turned and beheld my servant Tim. 
This, as I have already mentioned, was the hour 
at which Tim was in the habit of taking me home 
to my quarters, and, though we had dined an 
hour later, he took no notice of the circumstance, 
but, true to his custom, he was behind my chair. 
A very cursory glance at my " familiar " was 
quite sufficient to show me that we had somehow 
changed sides, for Tim, who was habitually the 
most sober of mankind, was, on the present occa- 
sion, exceedingly drunk, while I, a full hour be- 
fore that consummation, was perfectly sober. 

** What d'ye want, sir? " inquired I, with some- 
thing of severity in my manner. 

''Come home," said Tim, with a hiccup that 
set the whole table in a roar. 

" Leave the room this instant," said I feeling 
wrathy at being thus made a butt of for his of- 
fences — " leave the room, or I'll kick you out of 
it." Now this, let me add in a parenthesis, was 



3IO i^cilf Hours ivith Irish Authors. 

somewhat of a boast, for Tim was six feet three, 
and strong in proportion, and, when in liquor, 
fearless as a tio:er. 

*' You'll kick me out of the room, eh ! will 3^ou ? 
Try, only try it; that's all." Here a new roar of 
laughter burst forth, while Tim, again placing an 
enormous paw upon my shoulder, continued : 
*' Don't be sitting there, making a baste of your- 
self, when you've got enough. Don't you see 
you're drunk? " 

I sprang to my legs on this, and made a rush 
to the fireplace to secure the poker ; but Tim was 
beforehand .with me, and, seizing me by the waist 
with both hands, flung me across his shoulders, 
as though I were a bab}^ saying, at the same 
time, '' I'll take 3'Ou away at half-past eight to- 
morrow, av you're as rampageous again." I 
kicked, I plunged, I swore, I threatened, I even 
begged and implored to be set down ; but, wheth- 
er my voice was lost in the uproar around me, or 
that Tim only I'egarded my denunciations in the 
light of cursing, I know not ; but he carried me 
bodily down the stairs, steadying himself by one 
hand on the bannisters, while with the other he 
held me as in a vise. 1 had but one consolation 
all this while : it was this, that, as my quarters 
lay immediately behind the mess-room, Tim's 
excursion would soon come to an end, and I 
should be free once more; but guess my terror 
to find that the drunken scoundrel, instead of 
going, as usual, to tlie left, turned short to the 



TJie Adjutanf s Courtship. 311 

right hand, and marched boldly into Ship Quay 
Street. Every window in the mess-room was 
filled with our fellows, absolutely shouting with 
laughter. " Go it, Tim — that's the fellow — hold 
him tight — never let go," cried a dozen voices, 
while the. wretch, with the tenacity of drunken- 
ness, gripped me still harder, and took his way 
down the middle of the street. 

It was a beautiful evening in July, a soft sum- 
mer night, as I made this pleasing excursion down 
the most frequented thoroughfare in the maiden 
city, my struggles every moment exciting roars 
of laughter from an increasing crowd of specta- 
tors, who seemed scarcely less amused than puz- 
zled at the exhibition. In the midst of a torrent 
of imprecations against my torturer, a loud noise 
attracted me. I turned m^y head, and saw — hor- 
ror of horrors ! — the door of the meeting-house 
just flung open, and the congregation issuing 
forth en masse. Is it any wonder if I remember 
no more? There I was, the chosen one of the 
Widow Boggs — the elder elect — the favored 
friend and admired associate of Mr. INTPhun, 
taking an airing on a summer's evening on the 
back of a drunken Irishman ! Oh ! the thought 
was horrible ; and, certainly, the short and pithy 
epithets by which I was characterized in the 
crowd neither improved my temper nor assuaged 
my wrath ; and I feel bound to confess that mj- 
own language was neither serious nor becoming. 
Tim, however, cared little for all this, and pur- 



312 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 

sued the even tenor of his way through the whole 
crowd, nor stopped till, having made half the 
circuit of the wall, he deposited me safe at my 
own door, adding, as he set me down, '' Oh ! av 
you're as throublesome every evening, it's a 
wheelbarrow I'll be obleeged to bring for you." 

The next day I obtained a short leave of ab- 
sence, and, ere a fortnight expired, exchanged 
into the — th, preferring Halifax itself to the ridi- 
cule that awaited me in Londonderry. 



THE GHOST. 

AS RELATED BY MICKEY FREE. 



WELL, I believe your honor heard me tell long 
ago how my father left the army, and the 
wa}^ that he took to another line of life that was 
more to his liking. And so it was ; he was happy as 
the day was long ; he drove a hearse for Mr. Callag- 
han, of Cork, for many years, and a pleasant place it 
was ; for ye see, my father was a cute man, and knew 
something of the world ; and, though he was a 
droll devil, and, could sing a funny song when 
he was among the boys, no sooner had he the big 
black cloak on him, and the weepers, and he 
seated on the high box with the six long-tailed 
blacks before him, you'd really think it was his 
own mother was inside, he looked so melancholy 
and miserable- The sexton and grave-digger was 
nothing to my father ; and he had a look about 
his eye — to be sure there was a reason for it — that 
you'd think he was up all night crying ; though 
it's little indulgence he took that way. 

'' Well, of all Mr. Callaghan's men, there was 
none so great a favorite as my father ; the neigh- 
bors were all fond of him. 



314 ^<^^f Hop.rs wkk Irish Auihars. 

^' * A kind crajture ever}^ inch of him, the 
women would say. ' Did ye see his face at Mrs. 
Delany's funeral ?' 

'' * True for 3^ou,' another would remark ; * he 
mistook the road with grief, and stopped at a 
shebeenhouse instead of Kilmurry Church.' 

*' I need say no more, only one thing-, that it 
was principally among the farmers and the 
country people my father was liked so much. 
The great people and the quality— I ax your 
pardon — but sure isn't it true. Mister Charles, 
they don't fret so much after their fathers and 
brothers, and they care little who's driving them, 
whether it was a decent, respectable man like my 
father, or a chap with a grin on him like a rat- 
trap ? And so it happened that my father used to 
travel half the country ; going here and there 
whei-ever there was trade stirring; and, faix, a 
man didn't think himself rightly buried if my 
father wasn't there ; for, ye see, he knew all about 
it ; he could tell to a quart of sperits what would 
be wanting for a v%'ake ; he knew all the good 
cryers for miles round; and I've heard it was a 
beautiful sight to see him standing on a hill, 
arranging the procession, as they walked into the 
churchyard, and giving the word like a captain. 

**'Come on, the stiff- — now the friends of the 
stiff— \\o\N de pop'lace.' 

" That*s what he used to say; and, troth, he 
'vvas alwa3^s repeating it when he was a little 
gone in drink — for that's the time his spirits 



The Ghost. 315 

Avould rise — and he'd think he was burying half 
Minister. 

" And sure it was a real pleasure and a pride to 
be buried in them times ; for, av it was only a 
small farmer with a potato garden, my father 
would come down w^ith the black cloak on him, 
and three yards of crape behind his hat, and set 
all the children crj^ing and yelling for half a mile 
round ; and then the way he'd walk before them 
with a spade on his shoulder, and, sticking it down 
in the ground, clap his hat on the top of it, to 
make it look like a chief mourner. It \vas a 
beautiful sight!" 

" But, Mike, if you indulge much longer in this 
flattering recollection of your father, I'm afraid 
we shall lose sight of the ghost entirely." 

"No fear in life, your honor, I'm coming to him 
now. Well, it was this w' ay it happened : In the 
winter of the great frost, about forty -two or forty- 
three 3^ ears ago, the ould priest of Tullough- 
muray took ill and died ; he was sixty years- 
priest of the parish, and mightily beloved by all 
the people, and good reason for it ; a pleasanter 
man and a more social crayture never lived : 
'twas himself was the life of the whole country- 
side. A wedding nor a christening wasn't lucky 
av he wasn't there, sitting at the top of the table, 
with as much kindness in his eye as w^ould 
make the fortunes of twenty hypocrites, if they 
had it among them. And then he was so good to 
the poor ; the Prior}-^ was always full of ould men 



3l6 J^i-^U i^^^i''-^'^ ^ii'ith IrisJi Authors. 

and ould women, sitting* around the big tire in the 
kitchen, so that the cook could hardly get near it. 
There they were eating their meals, and burning 
their shins, till they were speckled like a trout's 
back, and grum.bling all the time ; but Father 
Dwyer liked them, and he would have them. 

"'Where have they to go,' he'd say, 'av it 
wasn't to me ? Give Molly Kinshela a lock of that 
bacon, Tim, it's a cowld morning; will ye have a 
taste of the ''dew" ? ' 

** Ah I that's the way he'd spake to them ; but 
sure goodness is no warrant for living any more 
than devilment ; and so he got cowld in his feet at 
a station, and he rode home in the heavy snow 
without his big coat — for he gave it away to a 
blind man on the road — and in three daj'S he was 
dead. 

** I see you're getting impatient ; so I'll not 
stop to say what grief v/as in the parish wdien it 
w^as known ; but troth there never was seen the 
like before ; not a crayture would lift a spade for 
two days, and there was more whiskey sold in that 
time than at the whole spring fair. Well, on the 
third day, the funeral set out, and never w^as the 
equal of it in them parts : first, there was my 
father; he came special from Cork with the six 
horses all in new black and plumes like little 
poplar trees; then came Father Dwyer, followed 
by the two coadjutors in beautiful surplices, 
walking bare-headed, v;ith the little boys of the 
Prioiv school, two and two." 



The GJiost. 317 

'* Well, Mike, I'm sure it was very fine ; but for 
heaven's sake spare me all these descriptions, and 
get on to the ghost !" 

*' Faith, your honor's in a great hurry for the 
ghost; may be you won't like him when ye have 
him, but I'll go faster if you please. Well, Father 
Dwyer, ye see, was born at Aghan-lish, of an ould 
family, and he left it in his will that he Avas to be 
buried in the family vault ; and, as Aghan-lish 
was eighteen miles up the mountains, it was 
getting late when they drew near. By that time, 
the great procession was all broke up and gone 
home. The coadjutors stopped to dine at the 
' Blue Bellows' at the crossroads; the little boys 
took to pelting snow-balls ; there was a fight or 
two on the way besides ; and, in fact, except an ouid 
deaf fellow that my father took to mind the 
horses, he was quite alone. Not that he minded 
that same; tor, when the crowd was gone, my 
father began to song, and tould the deaf chap that 
it was a lamentation. At last they came in sight 
of Aghan-lish. It was a lonesome, melancholy- 
looking place, \vith nothing near it except two or 
three ould fir-trees, and a small slated house with 
one window, where 'the sexton lived, and even 
that same was shut up, and a padlock on the door. 
Well, my father was not over much pleased at 
the look of matters ; but, as he was never hard 
put to what to do, he managed to get the coffin 
into the vestry ; and then, when he unharnessed 
the horses, he sent the deaf fellow with them 



3 1 8 Half Hours with Irish A uthors. 

down to the village to tell the priest that the 
corpse was there, and to come up early in the 
morning amd perform INIass. The next thing to 
do was to make himself comfortable for the night; 
and then he made a roaring fire on the old hearth 
^for there was plenty of bog-fir there— closed the 
windows with the black cloaks, and, wrapping 
two round himself, he sat down to cook a little 
supper he brought with him in case of need. 

" Well, 3'ou may think it w^as melancholy 
enough to pass the night up there alone, with a 
corpse in an old ruined church in the middle of 
the mountains, the wind howling about on every 
side, and the snowdrift beating against the walls ; 
but, as the fire burned brightly, and the little 
plate of rashers and eggs smoked temptingly be- 
fore him, my father mixed a jug of the strongest 
punch, and sat down as happy as a king. As long 
as he was eating away he had no time to be 
thinking of anything else ; but, when all was done, 
and he looked about him, he began to feel very 
low and melancholy in his heart. There was the 
great black coffin on three chairs in one corner; 
and then the mourning-cloaks that he had stuck 
up against the windows moved backward and for- 
vv^ard like living things ; and outside the wild 
cry of the plover as he flew past, and the night- 
owl sitting in a nook of the old church. ' I wish 
it was morning, anyhow^* said my father; 'for 
this is a lonesome place to be in ; and, faix, he'll 
be a cunning fellow that catches me passing the 



The Ghost. 319 

night this way again.' Now, there was one thing 
distressed him most of all : my father used always 
to make fun of the ghosts and sperits the neigh- 
bors would tell of, pretending there was no such 
thing; and now the thought came to him, 'May 
be they'll revenge themselves on me to-night, 
when they have me up here alone.' And with that 
he made another jug stronger than the first, and 
tried to remember a few prayers in case of need ; but 
somehow his mind was not too clear, and he said 
afterwards he was always mixing up ould songs 
and toasts with the prayers, and, when he thought 
he had just got hold of a beautiful psalm, it would 
turn out to be ' Tatter Jack Walsh,' or * Limping' 
James,' or something like that. The storm, mean- 
while, was rising every moment, and parts of the 
old abbey were falling, as the wind shook the ruin ; 
and my father's sperits, notwithstanding the 
punch, were lower than ever. 

'■^ * I made it too v/eak,' said he, as he set to work 
on a new jorum ; and troth this time that was not 
the fault of it, for the first sup nearly choked him. 

** * Ah ! ' said he now, ' I knew what it was ; this 
is like the thing ; and, Mr. Free, you are begin- 
ning to feel easy and comfortable ; pass the jug; 
your very good health and song. I'm a little 
hoarse, it's true, but if the compan}^ will ex- 
cuse — ' 

" And then he beg'an knocking on the table 
with his knuckles, as if there was a room full of 
people asking him to sing. In short, my father 



320 IJalf Hours with Irish Authors. 

was drunk as a fiddler; the last brew finished 
him ; and he began roaring away all kinds of 
droll songs, and telling all manner of stories, as if 
he was at a great party. 

" While he was capering this way about the 
room, he knocked down his hat, and with it a pack 
of cards he put into it before leaving home, for he 
was mighty fond of a game. 

*' * Will ye take a hand, Mr. Free?' said he, as he 
gathered them up and sat down beside the fire. 

" * I'm convanient,' said he, and began dealing 
out as if there was a partner fornenst him. 

" When my father used to get this far in the 
story, he became very confused. He says that once 
or twice he mistook the liquor, and took a pull at 
the bottle of potteen instead of the punch ; and 
the last thing he remembers was asking poor 
Father Dwyer if he would draw near to the fire, 
and not be lying there near the door. 

*' With that he slipped down on the ground, 
and fell fast asleep. How long he lay that way 
he could never tell. When he awoke and looked 
up, his hair nearly stood on end with fright. 
What do you think he seen fornenst him, sitting 
at the other side of the fire, but Father Dwyer 
himself; there he was, divil a lie in it, wrapped 
up in one of the mourning-cloaks, trying to warm 
his hands at the fire. 

** ' Salve hoc 7iomine patri T said my father, cross- 
ing himself. ' Av it's your ghost, God presarve 
me!' 



TJie Ghost, 321 

** ' Good-evening t'ye, IMr. Free,' said the ghost; 
'and, av I might be bould, what's in the jug?* 
For, ye see, my father had it under his arm fast, 
and never let it go when he was asleep. 

'* ^ Pater noster qui es in — potteen, sir,* said my 
father, for the ghost didn't look pleased at his 
talking Latin. 

*' ' Ye might have the politeness to ax if one had 
a mouth on him,' then says the ghost 

' "■ Sure I didn't think the like of you would 
taste sperits.' 

'' * Try me,' said the ghost ; and with that he 
filled out a glass, and tossed it oft' like a Chris- 
tian. 

*' * Beamish !' says the ghost, smacking his lips. 

" * The same,' says my father ; ' and sure what's 
happened you has not spoilt your taste ?' 

'' * If you'd mix a little hot,' says the ghost, ' Fm 
thinking it would be better ; the night is mighty 
sevare.* 

** * Anything that your reverence pleases,' says 
my father, as he began to blow up a good fire to 
boil the water. 

•' 'And what news is stirring?' says the ghost. 

" * Devil a word, your reverence ; your own 
funeral was the only thing doing last week. Times 
is bad ; except the measles, there's nothing in our 
parts.' 

*' ' And we're quite dead hereabouts too,' says 
the ghost. 

'"There's some of us so, anyhow,' says my 



322 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 

father, with a sly look. ' Taste that, your reve- 
rence.' 

" ' Pleasant and refreshing/ says the ghost. 
*x\nd now, IMr. Free, what do you say to a little 
spoil five, or beggar my neighbor ?' 

"■ 'What will we play for?' says my father; for 
a thought just struck him — * May be it's some 
trick of the devil to catch my soul.' 

'' ' A pint of Beamish,* sa3'S the ghost. 

*' ' Done,' says my father ; * cut for deal — the 
ace of clubs — you have it' 

** Now% the whole time the ghost was dealing 
the cards my father never took his eyes off of 
him, for he wasn't quite asy in his mind at all; 
but when he saw him turn up the trump, and take 
a strong drink afterwards, he got more at ease, 
and began the game. 

'' How long they played it was never rightly 
known ; but one thing is sure, they drank a cruel 
deal of spirits ; three quart bottles my father 
brought with him were all finished, and by that 
time his brain was so confused with the liquor 
and all he lost — for somehow he never won a 
game — that he was getting very quarrelsome. 

"■ * You have your own luck of it,' says he at 
last. 

'* * True for you ; and, besides, we pla_^r a great 
deal where I come from.' 

'' ' I've heard so/ says my father. * I lead the 
knave, sir, spades ; bad cess to it, lost again !' 

*' Now% it was really very distressing; for, by 



TIic Ghost. 323 

this time, though they only began for a pint of 
Beamish, my father went on betting till he lost 
the hearse and all the six horses, mourning-cloaks, 
plumes, and everything. 

" ' Are you tired, Mr. Free? May be you'd like 
to stop ?' 

'' ' Stop ! faith it's a nice time to stop ; of course 
not.' 

*' ' Well, what will ye play for now?* 

*' The way he said these words brought a trem- 
bling all over my father, and his blood curdled in 
his heart. ' O murther !' says he to himself. ' It's 
my sowl he is wanting all the time.' 

'' ' I've mighty little left,' says my father, look- 
ing at him keenly, while he kept shuffling, the 
cards quick as lightning. 

" * Mighty little ; no matter, we'll give you 
plenty of time to pay, and, if you can't do it, it 
shall never trouble you as long as you live.' 

*' ' O you murthering devil!' says my father, 
flying at him with a spade that he had behind his 
chair. * I've found you out.' 

''With one blow he knocked him down; and 
now a terrible fight began, for the ghost was very 
strong too ; but my father's blood was up, and 
he'd hav" ■"need the devil himself then. They 
rolled over each other several times, the broken 
bottles cutting them to pieces, and the chairs and 
tables crashing under them. At last the ghost 
took the bottle that lay on the hearth, and level- 
led my father to the ground with one blow ; down 



324 ^^(^^f Hours luitJi Irish AntJio) s. 

he fell, and the bottle and the whiskey were both 
dashed into the lire ; that w^as the end of it, for 
the ghost disappeared that moment in a blue 
flame that nearl}^ set fire to my father as he lay on 
the floor. 

'' Och ! it was a cruel sight to see him next 
morning, with his cheek cut open, and his hands 
all bloody, Ij^ing there by himself; all the broken 
glass and the cards all round him ; the coffin, too, 
was knocked down off the chair ; may be the ghost 
had trouble getting into it. However that was, 
the funeral w^as put off for a day, for my father 
couldn't speak ; and as for the sexton, it was a 
queer thing, but when they came to call him in 
the morning he had two black eyes, and a gash 
over his ear, and he never knew how he got 
them. It was easy enough to know the ghost 
did it ; but my father kept the secret, and never 
told it to an}^ man, Avoman, or child in them parts." 



SERVING A WRIT. 



THE way of it was this, said Major O'Shaugh- 
nessy : my father, who, for reasons registered 
ill the King's Bench, spent a great many j^ears of 
his life in that part of Ireland geographically 
known as lying west of the law, was obliged for 
certain reasons of family to come up to Dublin. 
This he proceeded to do with due caution ; two 
trusty servants formed an advance guard, and 
patrolled the country for at least five miles in 
advance ; after them came a skirmishing body of 
a few tenants, who, for the consideration of never 
paying rent, would have charged the whole Court 
of Chancery, if needful. My father himself, in an 
old chaise, victualled like a fortress, brought up 
the rear ; and, as I said before, he was a bold man 
who would have attempted to have laid siege to 
him. As the column advanced into the enemy's 
country, they assumed a closer order, the patrol 
and the picket falling back upon the main body ; 
and in this way they reached that most interesting 
city called Kilbeggan. What a fortunate thing it 
is for us in Ireland that we can see so much of the 
world without foreign travel, and that any gen- 
tlemen for six and eightpence can leave Dublin in 



326 Half I I ours zvitk Irish Author s. 

the morning- and visit Timbuctoo against dinner- 
time ! Don't stare ! it's truth I'm telling ! For 
dirt, miser3% smoke, unaffected behavior, and black 
faces, ril back Kilbeggan against all Africa. 
Free-and-easy, pleasant people ye are, with a skin 
as begrimed and as rugged as your own potatoes ! 
But to resume. The sun was just rising in a deli^ 
cious morning of June, when my father — whose 
loyal antipathies I have mentioned made him also 
an earlier riser — was preparing for the road. A 
•stout escort of his followers were as usual under 
arms to see him safe in the chaise, the passage to 
and from which every day being the critical 
moment of my father's life. 

" It's all right, your honor," said his own man, 
as, armed with a blunderbuss, he opened the bed- 
room door. 

"Time enough, Tim," said my father; "close 
the door, for I haven't finished my breakfast." 

NoAV, the real truth was that my father's atten- 
tion was at that moment withdrawn from his own 
concerns by a scene which was taking place in a 
field beneath his window. 

But a few minutes before a hack-chaise had 
stopped upon the roadside, out of which sprang 
three gentlemen, who, proceeding to the field, 
seemed bent upon something which, whether a 
survey or a duel, my father could not make out. 
He was not long, however, to remain in igno- 
rance. One, with an easy, lounging gait, strode 
toward a distant corner, another took an opposite 



Sei'ving a Writ, 327 

direction, while the third, a short, pursy gentle- 
man, in a red handkerchief and a rabbit-skin 
waistcoat, proceeded to open a mahogany box, 
which, to the critical eyes of my respected father, 
was agreeably suggestive of bloodshed and 
murder. 

** A duel, by Jupiter ! " said my father, rubbing 
his hands. " What a heavenly morning the 
scoundrels have — not a leaf stirring, and a sod like 
a billiard-table !" 

Meanv/hile, the little man who officiated as 
second, it would appear, to both parties bustled 
about with activity little congenial to his shape ; 
and, what between snapping the pistols, examin- 
ing the flints, and ramming down the charges, had 
got himself into a sufficient perspiration before he 
commenced to measure out the ground. 

^' Short distance and no quarter!" shouted one 
of the combatants from the corner of the field. 

** Across a handkerchief, if you like ! " roared 
the other. 

** Gentlemen every inch of them ! " responded 
my father. 

"■ Twelve paces ! " cried the little man ; ** no 
more and no less. Don't forget that I am alone 
in this business! " 

** A very true remark," observed my father ; 
"and an awkward predicament yours will be if 
they are both shot ! " 

By this time the combatants had taken their 
places, and the little man, liaving delivered the 



328 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 

pistols, was leisurely retiring- to give the word. 
My father, however, whose critical eye was never 
at fault, detected a circumstance which promised 
an immense advantage to one at the expense of 
the other ; in fact, one of the parties was so placed 
with his back to the sun that his shadow extended 
in a straight line to the very foot of his antago- 
nist. 

''Unfair! unfair!" cried my father, opening 
the window as he spoke, and addressing himself 
to him of the rabbit-skin. '' I crave your pardon 
for the interruption," said he, '' but I feel bound 
to observe that that gentleman's shadow is likely 
to be made a shade of him." 

"And so it is," observed the short man; "a 
thousand thanks for your kindness ; but the truth 
is I am totally unaccustomed to this kind of 
thing, and the affair will not admit of delay." 

'' Not an hour ! " said one. 

** Not five minutes ! " growled the other of the 
combatants. 

'' Put them up north and south !" said my father. 

"Is it thus?" 

*' Exactly so ; but nov/ again the gentleman in 
the brown coat is covered with the ash-tree." 

"And so he is !" said rabbit-skin, wiping his 
forehead with agitation. 

'* Move them a little to the left," said he. 

"That brings me upon an eminence," said the 
gentleman in blue. " I'll be d — d if I'll be made a 
cock-shot of." 



SiTvifig a Writ. 329 

** What an awkward little thing it is in the 
hairy waistcoat ! " said my father. *' He's lucky 
if he don't get shot himself." 

*' May I never! if I'm not sick of you both ! " 
ejaculated rabbit-skin, in a passion. *' I've moved 
you round every point of the compass, and the 
devil a nearer we are than ever." 

^* Give us the word ! " said one. 

*' The word ! " 

" Downright murder ! " said my father. 

'* I don't care," said the little man ; " we shall 
be here till doomsday." 

" I can't permit this," said my father. '* Allow 
me — " So sajdng, he stepped upon the window- 
sill, and leaped down into the field. 

*' Before I can accept of your politeness," said 
he of the rabbit-skin, '' may I beg to know your 
name and position in society ? " 

** Nothing more reasonable," said my father. 
" I'm Miles O'Shaughnessy, Colonel of the Royal 
Raspers; here is my card." 

The piece of pasteboard was complacently 
handed from one to the other of the party, who 
saluted my father with a smile of most courteous 
benignity. 

*' Colonel O'Shaughnessy," said one. 

" Miles O'Shaughnessy," said another. 

" Of Killinahoula Castle," said the third. 

•* At your service," said my father, bowing, as 
he presented his snuff-box ; *'■ and now to business, 
if you please, for my time also is limited." 



330 Half HoKf's zciih Irish Authors, 

" V^ery true/' observed he of the rabbit-skin ; 
** and, as you observe, now to business ; in virtue 
of which. Colonel Miles O'Shaughnessy, I hereby 
arrest you in the king's name. Here is the writ ; 
it's at the suit of Barnaby Kelly of Loughrea, for 
the sum of ^1,583 19s. 7>^d., which — " 

Before he could conclude the sentence, my 
father discharged one obligation by implanting 
his closed knuckles in his .face. The blow, well 
aimed and well intentioned, sent the little fellow 
somerseting like a sugar hogshead. But, alas ! it 
was of no use ; the others, strong and able-bodied, 
fell both upon him, and after a desperate struggle 
succeeded in getting him down. To tie his 
hands and convey him to the chaise was the 
work of a few moments ; and, as my father drove 
by the inn, the last object which caught his view 
was a bloody encounter between his own people 
and the mj^rmidons of the law, who in great num- 
bers had laid siege to the house during his cap- 
ture. Thus was my father taken ; and thus, in 
reward for yielding to a virtuous weakness in his 
character, was he consigned to the ignominious 
durance of a prison. Was I not right, then, in 
saying that such is the melancholy position of 
our countr\', the most beautiful traits in our char- 
acter are converted into the elements of ruin? 




.''.'"""^..^^ CONGRESS 




017 037 474 5 



